Changing Habits
by HiM'e'iTSu
Summary: Mycroft Holmes never knew that appearance of DI Lestrade in his life would bring so many changes. The last change was Mycroft realizing how important every little change was and how many of them were to follow, each making him happier.
1. Umbrella

**A/N: **Since DI Lesrade doesn't have a first name I took liberty and named him Gregory, because I've seen this version before and I think it suits him. I understand I don't actually have a right to do it but it's difficult to write about a character without a name.

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock…if I did there would have been at least one scene with Mycroft and Lestrade together.

_First change concerned his umbrella..._

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_**Umbrella**_

Mycroft Holmes was confused. For the first time in his life since he reached adulthood - which was a rather early occurrence because there is no other way for it to be when you are a son of a successful politician and an older brother of Sherlock Holmes - he was utterly lost. It wasn't anything grand, like a threat of a war for his beloved country, not even a government matter at all, that made him feel that way. It didn't affect the lives of the law-abiding citizens; it merely influenced his own life as well as the person who was the reason for his confusion. Previously known as DI Lestrade, now familiarly referred to as Gregory. After long and thoughtful research, followed by an intense analysis, Mycroft came to the conclusion that it was not, unfortunately, the man's fault - not intentionally at least. Unfortunately because there was no one Mycroft could blame but himself.

The problem was simple, at first glance it seemed, which also should have meant the solution would come easily. It didn't. Which led to only one logical conclusion: this 'problem' had in fact a deeper meaning. It aggravated Mycroft, the feeling that his carefully organized world wasn't as perfect as he had constructed it to be, was…confusing to put it lightly.

Gregory Lestrade was an interesting individual. He was intelligent, honest; caring for the ones around him came naturally for the DI. Which actually was the root of Mycroft's problem.

It concerned his trademark umbrella. Mycroft Holmes was used to always having it in his hand, twisting it, levering it on his wrist. Be it rain or a sunny day, he carried it around, comforting weight of it in his hand reminding him to be composed and confident. People around him knew better than to ever take the umbrella; only his personal assistant has his permission to lay her hands on it. No one else was allowed that honor. Obviously Gregory Lestrade, probably because he had been a police officer for most of his life, ignored the danger. It was impressing when he chased a dangerous criminal or conducted negotiations with terrorists, but appeared to be simply annoying when he, with care, gently took the umbrella from Mycroft's hands as if to lighten the man from his burden. It happened when they'd met in an unofficial atmosphere for the first time. In a simple crowded café they discussed Sherlock and his involvement with the last serial murderer's case. When their meeting came to an end and both men stood up to exit the café, Lestrade with a swift movement took Mycroft's umbrella from it's place on the back of the chair and gestured with the other hand for the other man to go, following right after him. Mycroft didn't like it in the slightest.

They proceeded to meet in inconspicuous places to talk about Mycroft's brother, and new cases, and then crime on the whole. And every time Lestrade took it as a rule to take Mycroft's umbrella. Eventually their discussions moved from crime scenes to more pleasant subjects and soon it seemed to become absolutely natural to meet up from time to time just to chat. More rarely the name of Mycroft's brother was mentioned, only remembered on occasions when the consulting detective had closed yet another unsolvable crime. Reluctantly Mycroft admitted to himself that it was pleasant, socializing with Gregory Lestrade; he even came to enjoy the DI's almost unconscious gentlemanly care. The only problem left: he still missed the feeling of a wooden handle of the umbrella in his right palm. It felt unnatural to be without it.

The two men exited a café in favor of having a walk around the nearest park, where they could thoroughly analyze how the presence of John Watson had affected the life of Sherlock Holmes. Like all the times, Lestrade managed to snatch the umbrella even before Mycroft could reach for it, so the other man had no other choice but to follow the DI, umbrella-less.

Mycroft flexed his fingers, clenching and unclenching them in a loose fist just to occupy his empty hand. Lestrade was walking on his right, retelling the last case Sherlock cracked, with the addition of sarcastic comments in the right places, making Mycroft smirk and chuckle from time to time. The weather was good, early spring with a cool wind and a bright sun, making older Holmes's mood even better, which he had to admit was not a frequent occurrence. That was actually the reason why he never rejected the DI's request for another meeting. He enjoyed the other man's company too much to deny himself this little pleasure even because of his hard work.

"Does Sherlock actually hold a human's head in the fridge? I heard too many stories about it to be able to distinguish what is true." Lestrade distracted him from his musings.

"Oh, yes. He does." Mycroft replied distractedly, adding after a moment of thought. "From time to time."

This, strangely, made the DI laugh. Mycroft swung his right hand, the movement coming out wrong without the additional counterweight of the umbrella, and thought that he had to do something about it. Probably, ask the other man never to touch it again which probably would come as an offence to him, or he could occupy himself with something else. He glanced at Lestrade briefly and then back at the road but after a moment his gaze returned to the man walking beside him, eyeing him more thoroughly. Making a decision quickly, he reached out with his hand and looped it carefully around Lesrade's elbow. Taking the not so subtle hint, the DI bent his left hand to make it more comfortable for Mycroft, not even pausing in the story he was telling. The alley ended with iron gates, leading out of the park, but they just turned around and proceeded with their walk. After a few minutes, Mycroft decided that it was a respectable substitution for his umbrella.

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**A/N: **Does anyone love Mycroft/Lestrade as much as I do? I think they can be so great together:)


	2. Sunday Mornings

_The second change concerned his Sunday mornings..._

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**Sunday Morning**_

Mycroft loved his Sunday mornings, the only free mornings of his week, because if you are Mycroft Holmes you have seven work days a week and every free minute is priceless. Literally, in his case. Sunday mornings were specially reserved for rare moments of sweet laziness. No one was talking about late mornings in bed, relaxing until the sun was too high in the sky to ignore its brightness any longer. Mycroft's definition of laziness was getting up precisely fifteen minutes later than usual and picking up a tie that was a shade brighter than he considered appropriate. By the time he arrived to the office a cup of tea already awaited him, prepared by his secretary just the way he wanted it, slightly more avant-garde than his everyday choice.

Mycroft would sit in his office on a sofa he'd specially ordered for a ridiculously high price. The piece of furniture was worth it though, because on Sunday mornings it felt wonderful to melt into the softness of countless cushions with a cup of tea and delicious pastries, to enjoy the moment of calm. His personal assistant, aware of all his habits, knew not to assign any meetings for that time of a day and a secretary, guarding his door, was eager to keep his peace since her job depended on it.

This was the advantage of being rich. Not expensive cars or giant boats and mansions. Not the popularity, which Mycroft considered counter-productive for any work. Not even the ability to travel to any place in the word the quickest way possible, which he admitted was useful, but he himself preferred to manage his business from the office. But the ability to have a beautiful quiet Sunday morning, a few moments of rest in a constant flow of policy.

Mycroft's life was dominated by his work. Most people would find a lifestyle like that terrifying but Mycroft Holmes was content with it. Like his younger brother, he hated inactivity. He liked feeling needed, liked when his time was occupied with plotting and revealing conspiracies. That way he felt that he actually _lived_. Unfortunately, the constant tiredness was a downside to his workaholic tendencies. Hence the Sunday mornings – time left only for his pleasure.

No one ever intruded on Mycroft's Sunday mornings. The world could wait, while the most important citizen had his tea under the accompaniment of soft classical music.

It was a usual Sunday morning. Mycroft, already in the office, was relaxing on his favourite sofa, leaning back on the soft cushions, gaze of half closed eyes staring out of the large window at the city waking up. Mycroft breathed in the aroma of his tea, a china cup encircled in his long fingers. He closed his eyes and let out a content sigh. It was worth living for moments like that. Without looking at his watch he knew there were still thirty minutes left for his Sunday morning bliss. Lovely.

Suddenly his mobile phone, which was lying on the coffee table, rang. Mycroft opened his eyes slowly and glanced disdainfully at the gadget. As it continued ringing, the British anthem resonating in the quietness of the office, he lifted one brow and sharpened his gaze as if he'd have done with a stubborn opponent. Unsurprisingly it did not work on an animate object and the melody continued playing, ignorant to the cold stare. Then there was a pause, quietness, and Mycroft relaxed back into the sofa, until in the next moment the melody started over.

If all the people who were important enough to know this number knew not to phone Mycroft at this time of the day, then who was the one who dared to disturb the almighty politician on his Sunday morning? Annoyed, he reached for the phone, very slowly hoping the caller would tire and disconnect. They did not, so he glanced at the screen and frowned at the name written there. The frown disappeared as he pushed a button and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said instead of greeting, every syllable precise. "How nice to hear from you."

The pleasantry in his voice was only half faked, and under the slight tone of irritation there was warmth Mycroft himself was not aware of.

"Hello," the DI replied. "I hope it's not too early for you."

"Not at all," Mycroft answered, leaning back on the sofa. "Is there any important news?"

"Nothing critical," Lestrade reassured. "I was hoping…I mean I thought maybe we could meet. Today? Or some other day?"

The hesitation and nervous stumbling in the other man's words brought an amused smile to Mycroft's face. It was sweet in a way, very different from the way people stumbled on their words in a haste to assure the politician that everything will go the way he wants it.

"To discuss Sherlock's latest case, I mean." The DI added hurriedly, covering his clumsy offer.

Mycroft considered Lestrade's words, remembering that their last meeting had happened a week before and no word of Sherlock was said then. It wouldn't hurt to have another chat with the man, Mycroft concluded. After all, meetings with Gregory Lestrade were nothing but pleasant, especially when they were not work related. The politician glanced at his watch.

"I suppose that can be arranged." He replied. "I'll see you in five minutes."

It was not a long way from the building his office was in to the café they always met in and if Lestrade wanted to meet him, he'd be there on time as well. After all, Mycroft still had twenty minutes left of his wonderful Sunday morning.

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**A/N: **I decided to make it a series of small oneshots_:)  
_


	3. Brother

_The __third__ change concerned his __younger brother__..._

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**Brother**_

Almost every person who had ever met Mycroft Holmes was one hundred percent sure that this man lived with his work. Nothing was more important for him than creating a web of policies and destroying his enemies' plans – that's what they thought. And those people where right, in their own way. Mycroft himself put work as his top priority, but that did not mean that policy was the _only _important aspect of his life. Another, also first, priority went to his younger brother – Sherlock Holmes. A constant problem, source of endless worry, the main cause for almost all of Mycroft's frown lines.

Mycroft loved his brother, not as openly and tenderly as social rules predicted an over-protective brother should, but he supposed it could be forgiven since Sherlock's response to his care was far from normal as well. The Holmes brothers were abnormal in their viewing of the world and in the way they saw relationships, Mycroft slightly better than Sherlock but still not entirely the same as most people did. But that was irrelevant because Mycroft and Sherlock did not care to personalize the term 'other people' in their mind, taking it only as a crowd, sometimes standing in their way and sometimes unknowingly working for them, helping to achieve their goals. The fact that the goals were very different for the two brothers did not change the mechanics.

So, contradictory to the common belief, which Sherlock unfortunately shared, Mycroft cared for his brother, worried about him. Why else would he put Sherlock under constant surveillance?

Thankfully, lately Doctor John Watson was around and Mycroft knew he could rely on that man to look after the younger Holmes. That lightened Mycroft's burden considerably and left him a small reassurance that his sibling would not be left alone even where Mycroft's sources couldn't reach him – 221B Baker Street. That was reassuring. They all knew what kind of things happened when Sherlock was bored.

Also, there was DI Lestrade. Of course he wasn't going to play nanny for the insolent consulting detective, but he could keep the man from rushing into danger headfirst. Or at least he tried. This also made the politician's life a little calmer.

Gregory Lestrade was a reliable man, who always kept his word – a quality Mycroft found the most honorable and also very rare in modern world. He, unlike so many others, managed to do what a lot of people wanted: Lestrade had gained Mycroft's respect. That must have been a difficult task if the DI wasn't by nature the type of person the politician valued the most, without thinking of doing so; without any notion to impress, Lestrade had shown Mycroft the side of his character that put him on the top of Mycroft's 'good' list. And that list was actually very short, in comparison with his black list.

"Sir?" His PA called, intruding into Mycroft's thoughts.

The politician looked at her, his mind still on the previous subject.

"Yes?" He asked the dark haired woman, if he remembered correctly, she insisted at being called Penelope that day.

"I was asking if you need any data to get ready for the meeting."

"No, thank you." Mycroft replied, his eyes wandering around.

"Sir, is everything alright?" The PA asked worriedly.

"Yes, I just…spaced out." Mycroft answered and frowned at his own words. Confusion in his tone matched the one in Penelope's eyes. Mycroft Holmes never spaced out. "Call the driver; we are leaving for the meeting."

The woman left and the politician, in the solitude of his office, allowed himself one tired sigh; it was a difficult job – 'occupying a minor position in British government' as he always said, but he would not trade it for anything. This time it was a ringing of the phone that brought him back to reality. He lifted the device to his ear, pushed the green button and waited.

"Hello?" Sounded on the other side. It was Lestrade's voice.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector."

"There is no need to always call me that. It's an unofficial call," Lestrade chuckled.

"Well," Mycroft hesitated for a second before continuing. "Gregory, what is the purpose of your unofficial call?"

"Sherlock," the DI replied, the word turning into one prolonged sigh.

"What happened?" The older Holmes asked, voice becoming serious instantly. Tiredness of the day was catching up with him; he had been hoping he could have some rest after the meeting but it seemed he'd have to deal with his brother's problems as well. And here he was, hoping that John Watson would be enough. Nothing could keep Sherlock from getting himself in yet another mess, Mycroft concluded.

"He was helping me with a murder case and rushed right from the crime scene like he always does. Well, you know…"

"Yes, of course. Do you know where he is right now?" Mycroft interrupted.

"Yes. You have nothing to worry about," Lestrade hastened to reassure him.

"Oh…" Mycroft didn't know how to respond to that. It was hard to believe because Mycroft Holmes _always _had something to worry about. He supposed it came with the name.

"Sherlock found the criminal, followed the man to his hideout. Case closed."

"Then why are you telling me this?" Mycroft asked with a slight irritation.

"He got shot."

"What?"

"He's fine now," Lestrade added quickly before Mycroft could make any disastrous assumptions. "Doctor Watson was with him so he provided first aid. The wound is not serious. We are at the hospital. So you have nothing to worry about. I just thought I'd inform you. You'd have found out soon anyway."

"Yes. I…" Mycroft sighed. "So everyone is fine?"

"Yes. As I said, nothing to worry about."

Mycroft almost snorted but caught himself in time; with his tiredness it was becoming more difficult to keep himself in check.

"Good then. I'll make a call to the hospital to make sure they treat Sherlock. Even if he'll be kicking and screaming."

"He won't," Lestrade replied with a chuckle. "Doctor Watson is a good influence on him. In some areas of life at least."

"That's very good, I was hoping he would be," Mycroft voiced his thoughts from earlier. As an afterthought he added. "No one else was injured?"

"No, John was not hurt. By the time he got to the hideout Sherlock already had the criminal unconscious."

"And you?" Mycroft asked. His voice sounded cool and uninterested and he was proud of it.

"Don't worry, I'm fine."

"I'm not-"

"Ah, sorry, it seems I have to go," Lestrade interrupted before Mycroft could formulate his denial. "I've got a lot of paperwork, you know. See you on Sunday."

And with that the DI disconnected, leaving a stunned Mycroft staring at his phone. Well, maybe Gregory Lestrade could lighten his burden of looking after Sherlock after all, Mycroft mused. In the next moment his PA entered the room announcing that the car was ready and he had to leave for the meeting. Penelope stared after him as her boss passed her and wondered what could have influenced his mood this much. He seemed almost cheerful.

As he sat through the meeting Mycroft couldn't help but let his mind wander a little. It was Saturday evening after all, he though with a small smile, hiding it behind his clasped hands. As an afterthought he made a mental note to put Lestrade under surveillance as well.


	4. Compliments

_The __fourth__ change__ involved compliments…_

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

**_Compliments_**

Mycroft Holmes was used to people complimenting him. He knew they didn't mean it, so he stopped paying attention to the compliments a long time ago. Lots of people, businessmen and politicians sought his favor; they hoped he'd help them with their small plans of obtaining authority, but Mycroft only associated with those who could be useful to him. Only mutually benefiting relationships.

And flattery definitely wasn't the way to get Mycroft's approval; there was only one type of compliments he took seriously and, even though he didn't show it, was pleased to hear them. Those were the words complimenting his intelligence. Yes, he was vain and he liked when others acknowledged his delicate brainwork. In that sense he was similar to Sherlock. It was nice when people appreciated his carefully constructed and undoubtedly successful plans. Silent anger mixed with awe was the best reaction he could get out of his enemies; those were the most sincere compliments he could get.

Well, he did not need any compliments actually. Just as Mycroft was used to flattery, he was also used to snide envious remarks. And really, most of the criticism he got from his younger brother, who didn't hesitate to come up with some new offence every time they met. On the other hand, the older Holmes was not far behind in delivering sarcastic comments. Their sibling rivalry was like a way for Mycroft to train his bantering skills in non-dangerous territory, because in verbal battles with Sherlock he only risked losing his dignity and no government secrets. Though it was controversial, which was worse.

Mycroft Holmes was prepared for all forms of complimenting, flattery and sarcasm. All, but one.

"Mycroft, you look good. Did you lose a few pounds?" Gregory Lestrade asked after a casual greeting handshake.

The sincere compliments.

The answer to Lestrade was a stunned silence. After a beat Mycroft regained his composure.

"Thank you," he replied casually, still deciding if he should believe those words or not. Baseless flattery was so common for the politician that it became a habit to accept it with a nod and a polite smile. But Lestrade's words sounded like the man actually believed in them. And really, Mycroft reasoned, the DI did not belong to that type of people; he was honest and straightforward.

They were at a crime scene; Mycroft tended to actually meet Sherlock from time to time and not only watch the video reports about his 'adventures'. The consulting detective had just solved another 'impossible case', finding a diamond collie that was thought to have long left the country. Spotting Sherlock in the distance, Mycroft bid goodbye to the DI in favor of talking to his brother. He dismissed the 'accident' with the compliment, preferring not to pay it much attention.

"This colour suits you, Mycroft." Lestrade commented as he took a seat at the table across from the politician. It was Sunday and time for their weekly meeting.

"Good morning," Mycroft replied, a little unsettled but not showing any reaction to the compliment. He lowered the paper he was reading and then folded it carefully and put down completely. "You look tired."

Lestrade ordered coffee and turned back to Mycroft.

"I have a lot of work. Several cases that need to be dealt with quickly." He answered, trying to sound cheerful but failing. That made Mycroft realize that the other man was not good with faking his emotions, he was like an open book. A very dangerous open book though, because all his emotions were rather confusing to Mycroft. And also somewhat pleasing, but that was a different matter altogether. Plus the fact that Mycroft wanted to believe Lestrade's compliments should be taken in consideration as well. Unsure of his own feelings, the politician turned their conversation to a more appropriate theme.

A week after that Mycroft was at the crime scene again, his PA, Andromeda this time, commented once that he tended to do it more often lately, but one look from him was enough to make her silent again. Yes, he liked when his employees kept their silence when they were not talking about work. It was pouring rain and he had opened his umbrella, for once using it for its correct purpose, not that it was helping much. His suit was still getting wet and the raindrops still reached his face. His hair, perfectly in place all the time, was falling into his eyes, wet strands obscuring his vision.

This time it was a serial murderer's case Sherlock had solved and Mycroft came to personally congratulate him. And of course to deliver some snide remarks and practice his skills at sarcasm, and even maybe try to persuade his younger brother to come to a nearing family gathering. Also – Mycroft wasn't going to deny it to himself since it'd only cause more damage – he hoped to catch a glimpse of DI Lestrade. It was interesting to watch that man work, so professional and collected, confident in his element.

Lestrade lifted his head, in the process of giving orders to Sergeant Donovan, talking directly to her ear to be heard over the patter of rain. As he noticed Mycroft, Gregory gave a little nod and a smile and then returned to work. The older Holmes looked around in search for his brother and upon finding him under the shed of a nearest shop with John Watson at his side, made his way to the pair.

"Mycroft, are there no employees in the government anymore and you have to do all the dirty work yourself? What are you doing here?" Was Sherlock's greeting to his brother.

"Spiteful as ever, I see." Mycroft replied with satisfaction. This was familiar territory; he knew where he stood with his brother. So unlike how it was with Lestrade.

It was confusing how one man could have such a great effect on Mycroft's life. But Gregory Lestrade was so unlike the other people Mycroft knew. The politician was used to dealing with people who were cunning with every one of their words a lie. But what the DI said to him every time they met…

"You look like a drowned rat," was the first thing that came from Lestrade's mouth when Mycroft came up to him after a talk with Sherlock.

That was not a compliment but a smile on Gregory's face warmed Mycroft's heart all the same.


	5. Worry

_The __fifth__ change __actually made him worried__…_

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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_**Worry**_

Mycroft Holmes walked down a wide corridor leading to his office, a ringing 'click' resonating from the walls every time the tip of his umbrella came in contact with marble floor; every second step he lightly stomped it with his umbrella. Mycroft was in a good mood, a rare occurrence on Thursdays, but he had just returned from the manor that belonged to the Homes family, where he had a very pleasant lunch with Mummy. He loved talking to her; it was almost the same as communicating with Sherlock but without the angry undertone to his interlocutor's words. A clever and witty opponent in a verbal battle was such a rarity in the modern world.

Mycroft was whistling a simple tune under his breath, almost too quietly to actually be heard; his eyes glistened with barely hidden amusement. A minor office worker he met on his way seemed a little freaked out by a cheery Mycroft Holmes, but he could not care less, he was used to intimidating people – loved it actually. He switched from whistling to humming, a tune – quick and cheerful, as he made the last five steps to his office, opened the door and closed it with a soft click as an ending note to his melody. He smiled slightly, making his way to the desk and sitting down in a comfortable chair. The office was alight with warm morning sunlight streaming through large wall sized windows.

He looked down at the desktop, taking in all the documents, carefully organized and sorted by importance, a surveillance report on Sherlock in the middle right before him. The older Holmes brother always got his daily reports in the morning, and, if Sherlock got a new case, he was informed immediately and updated on his brother's progress every couple of hours. This report, Mycroft realized as he scanned it with his eyes, was depicting how Sherlock had gotten a new case just twelve hours prior and cracked it during the night. He might have been impressed be it any other detective but his brother. Even if he was insolent and absolutely impossible to deal with because of neglecting any rules of social interaction, Mycroft had to acknowledge his genius, as well as Sherlock, albeit reluctantly acknowledged his.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and was about to toss the document on the desktop when his eye caught the name 'Lestrade' at the bottom of the page. The DI was on this case with Sherlock. Mycroft had him put under surveillance as well, but not as obsessively as his brother; the politician only got reports about the man's activity once a week – on Friday evenings. Mycroft turned the page and read the last paragraph of the report. And suddenly his mood was not as cheery as before. He reread the paragraph, just to be sure, and blindly reached for the phone on his desk. His PA answered in a second.

"Inform my driver, I'm leaving immediately." He told her, carefully putting the file back into a neat pile and turning it so it faced downwards.

"Where are we going, sir?" She asked.

"_I_ am leaving; _you_ are staying in the office. Cancel the meeting and organize a new one for tomorrow." Mycroft stood up, disconnected, and left the office, his pace so quick and precise that it almost seemed hurried.

With the same pace he entered a hospital precisely fifteen minutes later. Dealing with the nurse on the reception was easy since he'd already phoned the head of the hospital and used his influence so that he'd be able to see a patient without any hindrances. He waited for the hospital elevator to reach the required floor, watching red numbers change on the display, and tapped the floor with his umbrella impatiently. Mycroft tried not to analyze his own actions and the impulse on which he had rushed from his office to here, skipping an important meeting. Contrary to his own beliefs, the politician understood that in this situation it'd be better to stay in the dark concerning his reasons. It worried him, this sudden inability to stay calm and unconcerned.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open, repressing all thoughts but one. Gripping the wooden handle of his umbrella tightly, Mycroft counted down the numbers of the doors he passed on the way to his destination. He hesitated before the one he needed, his hand freezing halfway to the handle.

Mycroft heaved an exasperated sigh, catching himself before he rolled his eyes. It was stupid. The politician opened the door, quick, precise – as always. He entered quietly and looked around before stopping his gaze on the hospital bed and the patient lying there. Surprised hazel eyes stared back at him.

"Mycroft?" DI Lestrade asked, shock morphing into joy as he eyed the visitor.

"Gregory," Mycroft greeted, deciding that the situation called for a less official treatment.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," the DI admitted with a smile. He was half sitting in a hospital bed, looking slightly pale but altogether fine.

"I was informed that you were…injured on your last case," Mycroft said casually, coming up to a chair beside the bed. He sat down, crossing his legs and leaning both hands on the umbrella.

"Yeah," Lestrade admitted, a frown clouding his face for a second. "But it's not as serious as it seemed at the first glance. You okay? You look strange."

"I'm not the one lying in the hospital bed." The other man retorted.

The DI winced:

"I'm in perfectly good health but the doctors insist that I have to stay the night. I don't see how that would change anything. Except maybe I'll get a backache, it's not exactly comfortable here."

"Well, it seems you'll have to endure."

Lestrade let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Don't act like it's such a torture," Mycroft chided softly.

"But it is. Seriously. Have you never spent nights at the hospital?"

"I prefer my own small persona clinic. It's nice there," Mycroft replied, twirling the handle of the umbrella between his palms. He felt relaxed and at ease, away from the politics - and for most of the times he hated been away from work. But he didn't mind it then. He glanced at Lestrade, who was looking down at the covers with a frown on his face as a replacement for a pout. Mycroft leaned back in his uncomfortable chair and asked:

"Did you catch that criminal?"

"What criminal?"

"The one that attacked you, obviously."

"Of course," Lestrade scoffed as if the mere idea that he did not was offensive. "I wasn't made a DI for nothing, you know."

"I'm quite aware of your talents, believe me." Mycroft replied, but somehow it came out differently from how he planned it in his mind. That sounded almost inappropriate.

Lestrade lifted his eyebrows, eyes widened comically, and sent him an amused smirk. Before the other man could say anything Mycroft announced:

"I have important negotiations in half an hour and you need to rest. I suppose it's time for me to leave." He stood up, leaning on the umbrella.

"I don't need rest. I'm fine. And, really even if I did, trust me, your presence is far from tiring. Quite the contrary, actually." Lestrade smiled up at him.

Mycroft gave him a small smile as his own as an answer, and after a quiet goodbye left the hospital room. He felt much better than when he was walking the same corridor before. Probably he had overreacted when he first found out about Gregory Lestrade's injury, but he couldn't help it. He had to see with his own eyes that the man was treated and there were not going to be any serious consequences to the injury. On his way to the lift he took out his phone from the inner pocket of the jacket to make a call to the head of the hospital. Physically Lestrade was fine and Mycroft found no reason to prolong his mental torture.

The DI was discharged and was at his own flat by the evening of that day.


	6. Appointment

_The sixth change reminded Mycroft that not every meeting is a busyness appointment..._

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**Appointment**_

"Sir, you've got an appointment with the prime minister in an hour. The documents you asked for are on your table. Also, I arranged that meeting you asked for." Ariadne, that was the name Mycroft's PA favored that day, was saying emotionlessly.

"Good, thank you," the politician dismissed her on the threshold of his office, opening the door and entering alone.

The day had just started and he was feeling fresh and full of energy to fight with the prime minister's complaints and protect the projects he was promoting. His working day was painted on the clock, one appointment followed by another without a break. Actually he enjoyed it, being at work all the time. When his services were needed he felt his importance the most acute, and his vanity demanded it.

Of course the appointments were far from pleasant, but he got a satisfaction from them as a man does after he has completed a difficult ordeal.

He rarely got any social satisfaction from those appointments though. There were not many people he liked to talk to, at least not when it was a battle of wits. Probably the only person he was always happy to see and chat over a cup of tea with was his mother. Mummy, as the Holmes brothers were used to calling her.

Mycroft stepped away from the door, leaving it unlocked in case his PA or secretary would come to report important news. He crossed the office and settled into a large leather chair behind the desk. Documents were stocked into neat piles on the desktop, just as Ariadne promised, and he took the first one to have a look.

His telephone rang. Not the one standing on his desk, which his official contacts used when they didn't want to contact his PA first, but the one that still laid in the inner pocket of his jacket – this one he used for more personal matters. The name on the display was familiar and Mycroft wondered what Lestrade could want since they'd seen each other only the day before; it was their usual meeting.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector." Mycroft answered the phone.

"Hello. And I think I already asked you not to call me that when I'm not on duty," Lestrade replied.

"But you are always on duty, Gregory." Mycroft said, protesting and giving in at the same time.

"True. But I'm not at the crime scene right now."

"But _I _am at the office."

"Oh, I can call you back later."

"No, it's fine. I have at least half an hour before the next meeting. Is there a reason for this call?" Mycroft asked, getting more comfortable in his chair and putting the document away.

"Yes," Lestrade answered, somewhat hesitantly, his voice suddenly sounding nervous and a tad bit insecure. "I wanted to ask if you'd agree to meet up with me. On Friday? In the evening?"

Clipped phrases confirmed Mycroft's suspicions of the other man's nervousness. He frowned.

"I can connect you with my PA and she'll organize an appointment for you," the politician answered, slightly confused. "I don't see why you might need it though."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line.

"Mycroft, I wasn't talking about an appointment," Lestrade said with a note of exasperation.

Mycroft waited for him to continue, he was not a type of person who used interjections to continue the conversation, even if at that moment he really wanted to mumble something like 'Well' or ask 'No?'.

"I was asking for a date," the DI said, effortlessly rendering Mycroft speechless; the politician was happy that his shocked expression could not be transmitted through the phone line. "I am asking you out."

Lestrade added the last bit with confidence, preventing any misunderstandings. Mycroft kept silent.

"So?" The DI asked for an answer without actually voicing his question again. Now Mycroft understood why the other man was nervous, and his worry also seemed to pass to the politician.

"Of course, you don't have to accept my invitation," Lestrade said when Mycroft's silence stretched for too long. "I'll understand if you don't want to. So it's fine. I just thought I'd ask…you know it seemed like a good idea…before I voiced it…"

And now the DI started rambling. Finally composing himself, Mycroft found his voice again and intervened into the other man's stumbling speech.

"Gregory."

"Yes…?"

"I accept your invitation."

It was the DI's turn for stunned silence.

"Oh…" Lestrade coughed to cover up his surprise. "Good then. See you…on Friday?"

"Yes."

And that's how Mycroft learned again the long forgotten difference between a business appointment and a date.


	7. Flowers

_The seventh change made Mycroft understand that not everything should be taken so seriously…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**Flowers**_

_Monday_

Mycroft Holmes was no stranger to getting flowers. He loved them actually. Mummy's gardens were one of his favorite places in his childhood home, after the library of course. Long narrow alleys with long flowerbeds on either side were his most frequently visited places, especially on warm summer evenings.

Later Mycroft learned that flowers also were a very specific and useful way of communication. His so called friends, who in truth were his allies for a short period of time while their interests coincided, as well as his enemies were highly educated people who were aware of such a thing as language of flowers. It came in handy when you wanted to send a threat that only the recipient would understand, and that would not leave any traces the police could find. Flowers were just flowers; you can always claim that you had no idea of the meaning behind them.

That was why when he entered his office and the first thing he noticed was a small bouquet of lobelias on his desk, Mycroft froze, one hand still on the handle of the door he was closing. After a moment that lasted the length of one hitched breath he relaxed, calmly locked the door and came up to the desk. A meaning behind the present was glaringly obvious.

Malevolence.

There was no note and the politician stared thoughtfully at the flowers, attempting to remember who he angered this much lately, which was a difficult task since he made more enemies than friends every day. This was someone clever, though. Very clever, because this person knew an easy and elegant way to express their intentions.

Small blue flowers glared back at him, daring him to answer the challenge, taunting with small white marks in the center. Not taking their meaning into consideration, Mycroft thought that they were beautiful. Unusual and so different from all those posh flowers in their simplicity. As if someone had just cut them from a flowerbed, collecting them with care, and put them into a vase on his table. With a sigh Mycroft took the flowers and threw them into a bin by the desk.

It could have been the most memorable event of that day, had Lestrade not come by around lunchtime. That was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. The DI settled rather comfortably in the chair across from Mycroft, putting his feet on the desk. He lowered them though at one icy glare from the owner of the desk.

"I wasn't expecting to see you until Friday." Mycroft commented, putting away the documents to free some space for two cups of tea his secretary would bring in two minutes. He didn't usually take breaks between work, but since Gregory Lestrade so remarkably intruded in on his life, which the politician in truth didn't mind in the slightest, he had broken so many small rules Mycroft insisted on following that one more small changed habit wouldn't make much difference.

The lunch might have been very pleasant, if less than five minutes after the DI pleasantly announced his arrival, his mood had not shifted from cheerful to gloomy. Mycroft didn't even notice why it had happened.

_Tuesday_

Next morning another unpleasant surprise awaited Mycroft. He had just returned from an 'unofficial meeting', not much unlike the one he had with John Watson with the only difference been that his opponent this time was so scared of Mycroft he couldn't mumble a single word.

The politician sent his PA away and asked his secretary for a cup of tea and, leaving the two women behind, stepped into his office.

His eyes first fell on Gregory Lestrade, sitting on Mycroft's usual place behind the large desk. The sight brought a smile to his lips, which was quickly wiped away when his eyes focused on a new bouquet.

"Good morning," Lestrade greeted cheerfully, leaning back in the chair and putting his elbows on the armrests.

"Good day," Mycroft greeted and corrected in one sentence. His eyes were glued to a dozen yellow carnations glaring back at him. He frowned as he took a few cautious steps towards them as if every full-blown bud hid a bomb within its petals.

"You don't like carnations?" Lestrade asked with a frown of his own, intrigued with Mycroft's fixated look.

"Not these ones," Mycroft commented off-handedly, reaching for the flowers and throwing them away along with the vase.

Yellow carnations spoke of rejection or disdain. Clearly, Mycroft concluded, his anonymous enemy wanted to express his disdain with Mycroft Holmes's policy. This was almost getting interesting.

"So, lunch?"

He asked as if the last five minutes did not happen. He answered Lestrade's astonished look with his calm one and preferred to ignore the other man's scowl. Nonetheless the DI got up and followed Mycroft out.

_Wednesday_

That day Lestrade wasn't in Mycroft's office when the politician returned from yet another business meeting, specifically cutting it short to be in time for their lunch together. Andromeda, his creative PA, was clever enough not to comment on it; that was her special skill, a reason he had hired her. Her eyes though, a gaze she leveled him with when he said that she was free until the next meeting, said everything her lips could not – how quickly having lunch together became a new habit for Mycroft and Lestrade.

Frowning, Mycroft looked around, just in case the DI got tired of abusing the politician's desk in favor of Mycroft's favorite sofa. He was not so lucky.

Though with pleasure he noted that there were no flowers that day.

There was a knock on the door, insistent and deliberate, and whoever it was had entered without waiting for permission, as if knocking was merely a notification and not a request.

"Hello," Lestrade greeted with a smile, looking at Mycroft through the half-opened door.

"I thought you were not coming," Mycroft admitted absent-mindedly, not wanting it sound like it was important to him.

"How can I not?" The DI replied and shifted on his feet, looking at the floor. He seemed uncomfortable. "I also got something for you…"

Intrigued, Mycroft came closer to him. He stopped though when Lestrade stepped fully into the office, leaving the shelter of the door. He stood in front of the other man, sheepishly glancing from Mycroft to a small bouquet of flowers in his hand and back again. They were carnations, their petals – a mix of bright red and pure white.

"After your comment yesterday I thought you might like these ones." Lestrade commented tentatively handing the bouquet to him.

Mycroft took them, carefully as if he was afraid that his fingers would boil when they came in contact with the stems. He forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine because he didn't feel like smiling at that moment. Silently he persuaded himself that Gregory Lestrade had no idea what giving a person stripped carnations meant. Because, really, he'd never give Mycroft those flowers if he did.

Refusal. That's what those flowers spoke of.

_"__Sorry__ I __can't__be__with__you__",_ as it was written in all those old books Mycroft had been forced to read as a student.

"Thank you," Mycroft said tensely, taking the flowers and putting them away on the desk. "Shall we go?"

"Of course," Gregory replied and, with a smile, let Mycroft put his hand on his elbow, leading the other man away from the office.

_Thursday_

Mycroft was sure he was looking too much into things. Because it just couldn't be that Gregory Lestrade was such a cruel man. His words were telling one thing, but those flowers…But there was a very high possibility that the DI, even though he was an educated man, had no idea about the language of flowers. And Mycroft Holmes, who had that knowledge drilled into him since childhood, was just used to reading small signs, understanding subtle hints and basing his opinion on them instead of on the facts that seemed obvious.

How high was the possibility that the flowers he got two days prior also came from Lestrade? Mycroft decided not to over-analyze that.

Gregory was a good man. An honest man. Mycroft stopped his thoughts there. A small fear of humiliation, somewhere at the back of his mind, still made itself known, making the politician act more cautious than he always did around the DI. That was why, when the awaited knock echoed in the politician's office announcing the arrival of Lestrade, Mycroft was as tense as he always felt when he went to his annual meeting with the queen.

"Ready to go out?" Lestrade asked from the threshold, not bothering to close the door as he expected them to head out immediately.

Lunch together was a new habit for them. But Mycroft didn't move, his mind slowing down and almost coming to a halt.

"Oh, this?" Lestrade addressed the unasked question in the other man's eyes. "This is for you."

And the DI gave Mycroft a single yellow rose.

No, Mycroft though, there was no person on earth who didn't know the meaning of a yellow rose.

'Unfaithfulness. Decrease of love. Jealousy,' – that's how Victorian authors described it. And, Mycroft decided, everyone knew that, even in modern days.

"Lestrade," he called out. It came up a tad stricter than he intended.

The DI frowned.

"Gregory," Mycroft said softer. "What are your intentions?"

"Concerning what?"

"Me." The politician replied, choosing not to elaborate. His eyes didn't leave the DI's face, analyzing every small frown.

"I am taking you out on a date. Tomorrow." Lestrade answered, sounding unsure.

Mycroft nodded, waiting for a continuation. The other man stared back at him, confused at what the politician wanted to hear.

"What's wrong?" He asked instead.

Mycroft waved with the hand holding the yellow flower the other man gave him right before his face. When the DI didn't understand, he pushed the flower into Lestrade's hand.

"You hate flowers?" The DI made a guess. "Hate roses? Does it embarrass you to receive flowers from another man?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. After so many stupid questions coming one right after another he was half-convinced that Lestrade had no idea what he was unintentionally doing. Still he had to make things clear.

"Have you ever heard of the language of flowers?"

"Yes," the DI answered still frowning. "But really, no one pays attention to such things nowadays."

Mycroft looked the other man in the eyes pointedly and lifted his brow deliberately, exaggeratedly. Lestrade looked back at him, not comprehending. The politician watched how, after a moment of confusion, the light of understanding slowly lit up in Lestrade's hazel orbs.

"Oh…"

Mycroft nodded very slowly. Lestrade broke eye contact and glanced at the yellow rose in his hand.

"It's just a flower," he said defensively.

"It's a yellow rose." Mycroft commented; it sounded casual with how quietly it was said but at the same time he stressed every word in the sentence, making his interlocutor realize that what he was saying must be paid attention to.

"I like yellow flowers. I thought you might like it too." Gregory retorted.

"But it means decrease of love and unfaithfulness," Mycroft's voice was laced with exasperation.

"That's just prejudice."

"No, it's a very old and useful way of communication. And the 'messages' I got from you this week were far from friendly."

"Were they?" Lestrade wondered aloud. H carefully put the rose he was holding aside, on top of a neat pile of documents on Mycroft's desk.

"You are not even aware that you rejected and threatened me as well as expressed your disdain towards my persona, are you?"

"But it's just flowers. I didn't want to give some boring red roses. I wanted to find something more original."

"And why is it that while 'looking for original flowers' you come across exactly those ones which are used to declare a war?" Mycroft asked rhetorically, rolling his eyes. He smiled though, showing that he was not angry anymore.

Lestrade sighed, contemplating never again even attempting to make any surprises for Mycroft Holmes.

"I have only twenty minutes left before I have to return to Yard." He said.

Getting the hint, Mycroft went around his desk, took the umbrella that was hanging on the handle of the chair and headed for the exit, Lestrade following behind.

_Friday_

Mycroft didn't want to admit it but he was feeling nervous. A small nagging feeling started in the morning when he first stepped into his office and evolved into something disconcerting during the day. Lestrade didn't turn up for lunch, but that was fine. Mycroft knew that the DI decided to skip it in favor of dealing with his day's work. They just hoped that no brutal murder would happen that evening, as well as no diplomatic disaster, that would keep either of them from seeing each other that evening.

It had been quite a long time since Mycroft had had a date. Not as long since he had a lover, but that did not exactly require spending a lot of time together and getting to know that person. With Lestrade he actually wanted to get through that tedious routine of going out and acting all uncertain and awkward, wanting to see the other man but attempting not to show it. Mycroft didn't have enough time for this, especially with new elections coming, but 'oh, well you don't need to know about that, do you?'

Still, somehow he found himself canceling his last meeting for the day and even the one he had scheduled for after midnight with the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service about the publicity. Lestrade was stealing a large amount of the politician's precious time. Worst of all – Mycroft couldn't find any sense to mind.

In the evening, when the clock on the wall showed half past six, Mycroft called in his PA. He didn't bother to learn her new name for that day, and went through the day's most important decisions. She didn't stop glancing slyly at him every few minutes when she paused her typing on her Blackberry. She knew why he was giving her an evening off and Mycroft knew she was teasing him even though she didn't say a word about it. Half an hour later it was over and he left the office, willingly subduing the feeling of nervousness during the short car ride to the New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft stepped out of the car as it stopped and noticed Lestrade immediately. The DI came up to him, smiling coyly and, instead of a greeting him verbally, presented Mycroft with a new bouquet of yellow flowers.

"I hope I got it right this time?"

Mycroft smiled sincerely and took the flowers. In Victorian books these flowers were named jonquils, but the older Holmes considered it was safe to just call them daffodils.

"Yes, Gregory. Thank you." Mycroft said and, looping his hand around Lestrade's elbow gently, let the DI lead them away.

_"__Return__my__affection__"_ the flowers in his hand said.

Mycroft took one flower from the large bouquet and gave it back to Lestrade.

"_Affection returned"._

* * *

**A/N:** All the meanings are taken from a website which I'm inclined to believe is trustworthy. Also according to that source jonquils mean 'Return my affection' in later version of Victorian books on flower meanings while in earlier version they mean 'Affection returned'. For the sake of the story I united both versions.

Also I don't know how difficult can it be to get lobelias in London, but they fit nicely in the plot so I decided to use them. My small research showed that jonquils and daffodils are the same flowers, I hope it's right.

This is my favorite chapter of the series so far:)


	8. Affection

_The eighth change was all about affection…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**Affection**_

Mycroft was not the kind of person to express his affections openly. When you considered the fact that he had grown up in a family like his, it was quite understandable. Mummy Holmes was the only affectionate person he knew; maybe a little over-affectionate at times. She showered her sons with love and care, couldn't live a day without hugging them at least once – that was, of course, when the Holmes brothers were still young. As they grew up, Sherlock moved out and ran towards his own adventurous world, making a great fuss over it in the process, and Mycroft, led by a need to be closer to where all important political battles took place, bought a spacy apartment in London. The politician spent only a little time there, when he didn't have to work, but still could not call that place his home. Home was a small mansion in the suburbs where he grew up. Mycroft visited Mummy as often as he could with a schedule like his. On top of that, he would, from time to time, attempt to press Sherlock into attending at least one dinner every couple of weeks. His younger brother declined every time, but Mycroft had proof that he visited no less than Mycroft himself.

They both cherished her attention. Hers was the only affection Mycroft longed for these many years.

It was not like he wanted to have a big overly-affectionate family; he'd be the first one to bring Sherlock to a psychiatrist if he even attempted to hug Mycroft.

For most of his time Mycroft Holmes was surrounded by cold business partners as well as employees who were afraid of him; but that was fine – he worked hard to create a reputation like that.

And that was why Gregory Lestrade surprised Mycroft yet again. After their date both men viewed themselves as involved in a relationship, so Mycroft thought it was safe now to call them partners. He'd never refer to Gregory as his boyfriend, which sounded so juvenile, and he considered it a little early to call them lovers. So partners suited nicely. There was a small nuance concerning what meaning the two men put behind those words. Because rather unexpectedly it appeared that Gregory Lestrade was a man who'd tell the world about their relationship; subtly, of course, but he would still mention it.

No matter how much Mycroft attempted to deny it, he rather liked that, since finally getting permission to get closer, Lestrade couldn't keep his hands off Mycroft. Wherever they went, to their Sunday morning meeting or to their ordinary lunch or on another date, it seemed like Gregory always needed to keep physical contact with his date. That was endearing, the way he offered his elbow for Mycroft to hold onto when they went for a walk in the park, or how when the two of them entered a café or a restaurant Gregory, after gallantly holding the door so that his date could pass, would follow a step behind with his hand on the small of Mycroft's back.

Mycroft could not hide how happy it made him feel, but at the same time it could be too much. He was not used to openly displaying his relationship to the public. Not because he was ashamed of being in a relationship with another man, but just because he was the type to keep his feelings to himself, showing them only in private.

When Gregory greeted him with a kiss as he came to Mycroft's office in order to take him out for lunch, that felt causally wonderful and they fell into that routine as quickly as any other. But when the DI tried to kiss him in public, Mycroft instinctively moved away. He didn't mean it as an offence, but could not help his instincts. In a world like his own one learned to be very careful not to give his enemies any blackmail material. It's not like he wanted to consider it blackmail material, but as it is said 'old habits die hard'. Personally, Mycroft considered that saying crude, but that did not mean he could not use it once in a while.

The look on Lestrade's face when that happened was the one Mycroft would have preferred not to notice if he could. But the problem was that he couldn't t _not_ notice every small detail about that man. As a plea for forgiveness he carefully covered Lestrade's hand with his own, entwining their fingers. The DI glanced at his date from his place across the table from him, and after a second of faked offence gave him a forgiving smile. Mycroft decided he was very lucky to have a partner like that.

He reconsidered that statement though, because Lestrade was as persistent as he was honest and forgiving. Subtly he bent all the boundaries that Mycroft had created. He did not break them, just very carefully avoided sharp edges, side stepped them and expanded the boundaries slightly so that they'd fit his tastes. The politician thought that the DI probably had a diplomatic talent which he hid well, because Mycroft didn't notice how that had happened. On the other hand, he did tend to get short-sighted when it came to Gregory.

Every refused public kiss he amended with an uncharacteristically tender smile and hand holding. He let Lestrade move a nonexistent strand of hair from his eyes, gently running his fingers over Mycroft's brow. That felt nice, but with so many people around Mycroft could only stand stiffly and wait until it would end, hoping people wouldn't stare. He didn't like being the center of everyone's attention; and even if technically he was not, Mycroft still felt like all those people around were looking at him. He knew very well how curious people could be.

The moment Lestrade quickly moved closer as if preparing to attempt yet another kiss, Mycroft was ready to move away as he did many times before. But this time the DI snuck one hand around his waist, not exactly hugging but still holding him in place, and said something very quietly which Mycroft didn't have the sense to comprehend. It was a boring mundane thing, because the gesture itself had more meaning than the words. And Mycroft just let him do this. In that exact moment Mycroft Holmes realized that he was fooled.

Every time he turned away from Gregory when they were in public, he did something to compensate for it. And it appeared, while for Lestrade those conditions didn't change, for Mycroft it was entirely different – every time he gave in just a little more, bending yet another of his small rules and letting Lestrade do something slightly less obvious than kissing. And that's how they came to holding hands, rarely though since Mycroft considered that inappropriate for his age and thankfully Lestrade agreed with him on that one. They ended up walking closely together so it was very easy for the DI to put his hand around Mycroft's waist carefully, making the gesture seem almost unconscious and unintentional.

While Mycroft was busy playing political games, he was beat in a game he didn't realize was occurring. Somehow he couldn't find any willpower to mind that.


	9. The Matter Of Perspective

_The ninth thing that Mycroft learned was that everything was just a matter of perspective…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**The Matter Of Perspective**_

Mycroft's first instinct was to blame everything on that stupid thing. On the other hand he probably should not have left it in the plain sight where anyone could see it. To justify it though, it had to be said that only a few people were allowed into his apartment. And even fewer people knew about _that_. Actually only one person – Mycroft's PA, whatever her name happened to be; and that woman knew how much she'd suffer if she told anyone. Not even Mummy had any information about that, and the older Holmes dreaded the moment his brother would find out. And he would – Mycroft was sure of it, he just hoped that it'd happen later rather than sooner. He also planned to tell Mummy…some time…in the faraway future. And it was not like he was ashamed, he just preferred when no one knew.

But all that was at the back of his mind at that moment. The forefront was occupied by Gregory Lestrade standing in the middle of his living room staring at _that. _

"Do you wear glasses?" The DI asked, taking the simple silver rimmed glasses from the coffee table.

Mycroft suppressed an urge to cry out a 'No' like a schoolboy denying he was the one who had broken the window in the principal's office. He winced instead, allowing himself this little sign of distress in front of the other man, and came up to Lestrade. He slowly took the offending object from his hands.

"They were prescribed to me just a month ago," he explained, running his fingers over the rims.

"I haven't seen you wear them." The DI commented. "Put them on."

"I'd rather not," Mycroft replied with another wince and put them down on the table.

"Why?"

"They make me look ridiculous." The politician replied. His words were not hasty but lacked his usual aristocratic drawl. "Thankfully I don't need to wear them all the time."

"Why not? I think they'd make you look smart." Lestrade protested lightly and picked the glasses up again.

"I don't need _that _to look smart." Was the politician's cold reply. Mycroft might have taken it as an insult if the other man hadn't been smiling so charmingly.

"I just wanted to say that they'd make you look even more attractive."

"I highly doubt it."

Lestrade, a smirk set permanently on his face, stepped closer to Mycroft while carefully offering him the glasses.

"Put them on," he said in a soft but commanding voice.

Mycroft's eyes refocused from the man's face to the glasses held in front of his face.

"Gregory…" He said quietly, not moving to take or to reject the offered glasses.

"Come on. If I burst laughing in your face I'll promise to never make you wear them again."

"That's not what I can call a good deal."

"And I'll promise to grant any wish you might come up with," Lestrade looked pointedly at him, his gaze of hazel eyes steady with a bright twinkle of mischief.

"Anything I want?" Mycroft clarified the terms as the natural diplomat he was.

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed with a smirk.

Not for the first time Mycroft decided that the DI was very good at persuasion and thanked fate for Lestrade not taking a way of diplomacy and becoming a politician.

With his lips pressed together tightly being the only sign of his discomfort, Mycroft took the glasses with both hands by the silvery earpieces. He lifted them to his face, not quite putting them on yet, and looked at his partner through the transparent lenses. Lestrade nodded encouragingly, corners of his mouth lifted only slightly in what might become a smirk very soon.

With a sigh that was accurately exaggerated, Mycroft put the glasses on. With a gesture very foreign to him but observed from some colleagues, he pushed them up his nose with his index finger. Then he bowed his head a little and looked at the man in front of him over the silver rims.

"Are you satisfied? Can I take them off now?"

Gregory shook his head from side to side slowly, chuckling lightly at Mycroft's narrowed eyes.

"How can I ever let you do this?" Lestrade asked and Mycroft hated and loved the low teasing tone of his voice. "I think you look dashing like that."

Mycroft lifted his brows in disbelief – an expression he mastered since entering college – and made a move to take the glasses off. He was hindered though by the other man's hand gripping his wrist firmly.

"Don't," was the only thing Lestrade said; a gentle command as he took the last step separating them.

"Is it possible that you have a glasses-fetish?" Mycroft questioned straight forwardly and turned his head lightly to the side to soften his words.

"No. Just a Mycroft Holmes fetish."

"Oh, well. Good that it's not a Sherlock Holmes fetish," the politician commented casually and made another attempt to remove the spectacles from his face. Lestrade's hand encircled his fingers just over the rims. Gently he broke Mycroft's grip on them and entwined their fingers, bringing both hands down.

"Don't spoil the mood by bringing up your brother." The DI replied, caressing the knuckles of Mycroft's right hand with the tips of his fingers and letting go of the man's left hand in favor of wrapping one arm around his lover's waist.

"Well now that we established that you don't have an unhealthy addiction to men in glasses, I guess it's safe for me to take them off." Mycroft played along, turning the situation to his advantage to get what he wanted. And that included more than just those stupid glasses off as soon as possible.

"I like them on you."

"They'd get in the way." Mycroft said with a smirk – ever the cunning diplomat.

"In the way of what?"

"This," Mycroft leaned in, chastely pressing his lips to Gregory's, giving the man only a small glimpse of what might come if he just submitted to his will. Tactics he used in policy seemed to work nicely in his personal life as well.

"Oh, then…If you insist," Lestrade gave in quickly without any more protests. Slowly he brought his hands to his partner's face and slid the glasses off.

They proceeded without any more hindrances.

* * *

**A/N: **I've got a oneshot _**Personalized Deductions **_which is also a part of this series but was posted separately because it's from a different POV. It's set sometime after _The Matter Of Perspective_. I hope you'll read it as well:)


	10. Wasting Time

_The tenth thing that Mycroft realized was that wasting time was not always a bad thing…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_**Wasting Time**_

Mycroft Holmes hated wasting time. Some people said that time is money; he personally thought that wasting time equaled missing opportunities. An opportunity to make a good deal, to get the information his enemies were after before them, an opportunity to stop some stupid politician from compromising themselves – Mycroft was not the type of a person who could easily let others get what he wanted too.

It took effort to be aware of everything, be it information for public announcements or the real going ons. That's why no time wasting was allowed. Mycroft fired his last secretary because she was painting her nails during working hours, which caused her to pick up the phone a second later than was appropriate, which in turn irritated the caller. So when Mycroft was finally connected with that person, the man was annoyed and snapped at the politician. There is no need to explain why the negotiations didn't go well at all.

And now here he was. Sitting alone in a restaurant, waiting. Mycroft was used to dining alone, actually preferred to eat in peace and quiet, somewhere in a corner of a fancy restaurant. It was also a good thing that he was acquainted with the owner of this establishment, which helped to keep the nosy waiters away from his table. But right at that moment, that was not what Mycroft wanted. He had a date with Lestrade but the other man was late – he had phoned earlier in the evening, which was very nice but kind of useless as the politician was already informed about the robbery case that the DI was assigned. Mycroft felt like he was wasting time.

He took a long sip of his water, longing for a taste of good wine, but waiting for his date's arrival to order. Mycroft was curious about what Lestrade would prefer, what he liked. He wanted to know his tastes, try it all for himself and see how different they were from his own. Mycroft imagined that Lestrade's taste in beverages, even though not as sophisticated, still might please the politician.

Mycroft glanced at his wrist-watch, noting that it was precisely twenty three minutes since Lestrade should have appeared, which was fine after his phone call and a promise to arrive. But the politician could not shake off the feeling of time spent absolutely uselessly. Minutes ticked by and nothing happened, no important phone calls and no deals made. Nothing.

It pained Mycroft to look around and notice two people in business suits obviously having an informal business meeting. Inevitably it brought an idea to the politician's mind that dates were a waste of time. He snapped out of it as soon as his mind registered that train of thought. He lifted the glass of water to his lips again; cool liquid helped to sooth the starting anxiety. Mycroft used to think that way some time ago, considering dating and relationships on the whole unneeded and boring. He was in a process of changing his mind now though.

The date still might be boring but the outcome was worth it. Spending time with the person he liked, Gregory Lestrade, even if the man was ranting about his job cases or Mycroft's insolent younger brother, was better than work and more satisfying than exposing an enemy. With Lestrade, Mycroft's life consisted of more than just diplomacy and intrigues. And that felt wonderful.

"I'm sorry I made you wait," a voice intruded on his thoughts. When Mycroft looked up from where his gaze was locked on the rim of high glass he was met with the worried face of his long awaited date.

"It's nothing," Mycroft replied with a smile.

"My work can get rather hectic," the DI said as an apology.

"Believe me, I understand. I…don't mind waiting…a little." He calmed his date with a tight smile. It was almost true.

"I know you hate waiting," Lestrade said suddenly; he was smiling with a light hearted smile.

For a second Mycroft just stared at him, amazed at his partner's insight, then he brushed it off with a more sincere smile.

"I can wait for you."

Lestrade nodded, a hint of a smile and serious gleam in his hazel eyes, doing wonders to Mycroft's heart. Calming him down one second and then throwing him off a metaphorical cliff the other. It was beautiful and worth any wasted time.

Sometimes it was nice, to waste time together with someone else.


	11. Luck

_The eleventh change made Mycroft consider what luck actually was…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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_**Luck**_

Mycroft Holmes was never lucky. Whatever he did in his life, he always worked hard to achieve his goal, relying only on his own abilities and never on something as elusive as luck. When the politician was pressed to choose blindly, he always skipped the tormented changes of mind and just picked up what first came to mind, getting ready for the worst. Mycroft always drew the short straw. He was used to it. And he was ready for it.

When he was younger, Mycroft hated it, especially in moments when his younger brother got lucky with almost every small thing and didn't even appreciate it. With years he learned to ignore it and just take whatever fate gave him and operate with that. He managed to get the best out of the worst situation, turning it to his advantage. That's why there were not many people who dared to become enemies of Mycroft Holmes.

Luck was nothing to Mycroft.

So you can imagine his reaction when Lestrade slumped into a chair across from him with the words:

"I got lucky today – no cases for my department. It was a calm day."

"There is no such thing as luck," the politician commented off-handedly, putting away his newspaper.

"Why not?" Lestrade inquired after he made his order and the waitress scurried away. "I consider myself a lucky person."

Mycroft leveled his partner with a doubtful stare and didn't turn away until Lestrade started fidgeting uncomfortably and trifling the end of his napkin.

"Really," he offered weakly, his tone half-questioning.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft replied and finally looked down at his folded paper. He lifted his cup gracefully and took a tentative sip of his black tea before gracing Lestrade with any explanation. "Gregory, what people call 'luck' is just another superstition. We are the makers of our own life. No fate, no luck. Nothing is leading us forward except our own will and strength."

"That way of thinking," Lestrade retorted. "Is simply boring."

"And relying on something you can't prove the existence of is so very entertaining?"

"Well, it adds a certain charm to life." There was a smile on the DI's face, which didn't get any response from Mycroft.

"Believe me, Gregory, my life is full of 'charm' as it is," he accented the word with his tone as well as his sarcastically raised eyebrows. "And I believe yours is as well, with all those chases and shootouts. Enough trouble to stay away from believing in _luck_."

"If you don't see something it doesn't mean that it doesn't exist," Lestrade replied with childish stubbornness. Alone with his partner, the DI allowed himself more freedom in his expressions and behavior.

"I'm a skeptic. I need proof."

"Oh come on. That's stupid. There are things that are not scientifically proven but everyone, including you, knows that they do exist."

"Such as?" Mycroft asked, slight irritation coloring his voice.

"Love," Lestrade answered without hesitation.

Mycroft willingly stopped himself from retorting with the first thing that came to his mind. He considered what his partner had said.

"Yes," was the only thing he said after minutes of silence before returning to his tea.

"Yes?" Lestrade repeated, confused.

"Yes. Love does exist."

"Yes," Lestrade echoed, smiling at his lover.

Mycroft didn't answer the smile. He sat straight in his chair, tense and over-aware of every little detail. His eyes were locked on the cup in his hand, as if Earl Grey could tell all the secrets of life to him.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade called out softly, leaning forward over the table.

The man looked up quickly, clouded eyes becoming clear again.

"I'm sorry. I spaced out for a moment."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. Good actually."

By nature Mycroft was a very private person, he kept his thoughts and feelings to himself. There were not many people he was ready to share his affection with. That was yet another reason why he avoided relationships; it was very convenient to spend your time with someone on terms of not asking for anything and not giving anything in return. With Gregory Lestrade everything changed; Mycroft felt like every day he was giving away a part of himself, but he also was getting a part of Lestrade as well. It was a fair trade.

"Wonderful," Mycroft murmured, so quietly his partner barely heard the word.

And as he smiled at Gregory, Mycroft decided that maybe he _was_ lucky after all.

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**A/N: **Hello, is anyone still reading this story? Because, dear readers, it'd be wonderful to get reviews especially from those who add this story to Favorites. Just a small review to make the author happy:)


	12. Senses

_The twelfth change only involved senses…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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_**Senses**_

_Sight_

It's always a pleasure for Mycroft to see Gregory Lestrade. When, sitting in their usual café to which they at some point in time started referring to as 'their place', Mycroft looks out of the window and notices the figure of his lover, still far away across the street. It's impossible for him to hide his smile.

Lestrade's posture is hunched, just a little bit, because he's off work, away from the publicity and all those reporters with their cameras and endless questions, so he can let himself relax and just be an ordinary citizen. His coat is almost falling from his shoulders with the way he throws it back, because it's spring and it's getting warmer every day; soon he'll probably disregard it completely. That's good, Mycroft decides. He likes how Lestrade looks in a suit, especially with the way the DI wears it – all careless but still official, with wrinkles and dust on the sleeves. In Holmes' vocabulary it's called 'inappropriate'. But, oh how well 'inappropriate' suits Lestrade.

Lestrade lifts his gaze as soon as he crosses the road and his eyes lock on Mycroft through the window. Mycroft likes those hazel eyes. Always intelligent and sharp, but so calm. And when there is that warmth in them and a smile, there is no way of stopping Mycroft from smiling himself. The sight of Gregory Lestrade always does it to him.

_Hearing_

"Morning," Lestrade murmurs as he sits down across from Mycroft. The round table is small in diameter and he moves his chair so that they are not sitting exactly opposite each other but instead are almost side by side. It's easy to make a quiet conversation that way, discuss confidential information or flirt reservedly without being overheard.

Mycroft likes how Lestrade's voice sounds when he's speaking so quiet, the tone any softer and it'd be a whisper. The timbre of his voice is beautiful, slightly husky from years of smoking – a habit Lestrade still is trying to get rid of with varied success. The best part is when Lestrade leans in, putting one hand on the armrest of his partner's chair and whispering an offer which Mycroft is unable to refuse. A minute later they leave, walking not hurriedly but not at a regular pace either, no more words exchanged between them until they reach the DI's flat, securely hidden behind the closed door.

Those are the moments when Mycroft loves his lover's voice the most.

_Smell_

Sometimes he smells of nicotine; a barely traceable smell on the days when stress from the case become too much and nicotine patches are not enough. But those occasions are only few and far between, so Mycroft can't get used to it – every time it's something new and interesting, and he isn't sure if he likes it or not.

Sometimes he smells of gunpowder. More often than Mycroft would like. But even though Mycroft knows that it means that his partner had got into a firefight that day, was shot and shot back, his life was in danger, one day he realizes that he likes that smell on Lestrade. It brings a certain edge to their encounters, makes every emotion tenfold stronger and every feeling sharper.

Sometimes he smells of coffee and dust – on the days when there is only paperwork for the DI. This smell is boring, Mycroft thinks, and Lestrade unknowingly wholeheartedly agrees. But even this smell has its own allure, even if it is mixed strongly with the too-insistent perfume of Sergeant Donavan, because they've spent the whole day in a closed office, dealing with the official side of police work.

Most of the time he just smells like Lestrade, that dizzying mix of nicotine, coffee and gunpowder – all masked under his favorite cologne, always the same one. When Lestrade moves closer, one hand on the small of his partner's back, this smell envelops Mycroft. Mycroft loves those moments.

_Touch_

The warm palm of Lestrade's hand on the small of his back as the other man steers him away from the café is very distracting. They are still talking about something, but Mycroft lets his mind wander. He anticipates running his fingers through Lestrade's greying hair, tugging slightly just because he can.

They walk to the car but in his mind Mycroft is already sliding his partner's jacket from his shoulders, palms of his hands pressed to Lestrade's chest. Cool white cloth and warm flesh underneath.

The couple settle on the backseat of Mycroft's car and the DI's hand naturally finds its way onto the other man's knee. Unable to do anything more, the driver in the front willfully keeping his eyes on the road, Lestrade slides his fingers over the material of Mycroft's trousers, gentle but yearning for more.

Finally the door of Lestrade's apartment is slammed closed behind them, the surveillance is off as well as Mycroft's jacket. His tie is on his way to the floor as they enter the hall. And finally he can fully revel in his lover's touch. It starts as careful and gentle and then grows more confident, bold. As soon as Lestrade's jacket is thrown away in the general direction of the couch, they forget about prudence, every touch feverish and powerful with a need to get closer than possible. At that moment there is nothing Mycroft desires more than his lover's touch.

_Taste_

Coffee. It is the first thing that Mycroft tastes as he grabs Lestrade's shoulders and kisses him as soon as the sound of the door locking resonates through the DI's apartment. He's not really fond of coffee, but this variation is very enjoyable. It's only a first impression though, and soon the taste changes. From this moment everything escalates, gets more heated; hands gripping and tugging, and pulling, eyes closed to block out distractions and only hear the soft sighs and small moans, smell the dizzying mixture of their colognes and just feel. Tenderness and passion is in every move. At times like these, in Lestrade's arms Mycroft can let go of his rigor and self-discipline, forget rules and stamp on his insecurities. At times like these Mycroft is grateful to his senses for letting him feel all this.

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**A/N: **I was a little worried with a little response to later chapters, but then I got so many wonderful reviews for Luck, I was very happy with such a reaction. I guess an author needs sometime to pout and ask for reviews. I'd like to thank you, dear readers, especially those who I can't thank personally. Getting reviews is always exciting and inspiring:)


	13. Compromised

_The thirteenth change made him think that maybe been compromised wasn't always a bad thing…_

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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_**Compromised**_

One of the worst things that could happen to a man, in Mycroft's opinion, was being considered stupid. Embarrassment and awkward moments should be avoided at all costs – that's why he always kept himself in check, made plans for every situations and, no less important, followed them. Holmes can never look stupid. Even Sherlock understood that small rule, even though he tended to break it more often than his older brother. Mycroft thought it was because he overlooked the importance of human communication too often.

But there were times, just like this one, when a man had to decide between looking stupid and becoming compromised. In Mycroft's career it was also of great importance to keep one's reputation.

Early in the morning, while dressing Mycroft stood up in front the large mirror to make his tie. He chose a light-blue shirt after noticing that one of his white shirts was missing, probably borrowed by Lestrade when the DI rushed to the Yard in the middle of a night. If the phone call he got was anything to judge by, they wouldn't be seeing each other for a whole day. Mycroft was counting on the daily report to find out about what had happened in London during that night, which needed the attention of the DI so urgently.

He noticed the problem immediately and his fingers stilled in making a knot. One inch over the line of his collar, a little too high to be hidden by the fine material of the shirt. A glaring piece of evidence of his lover's attention. It was somewhat flattering, especially when memories of the previous evening returned for a brief uncontrolled moment. At the same time, though, it was aggravating.

Mycroft Holmes never changed his style, so even the smallest addition to his attire would not go unnoticed. More so, if it was a scarf on a warm spring day. Looking stupid or compromised? Or probably, both.

Mycroft reached for the scarf, eyes still locked on his reflection. With a sigh he put it around his neck.

The moment he stepped into his office, his PA meeting him by the door with that twinkle in her eyes, Mycroft knew he wasn't fooling anyone. He didn't even bother with making up a lie that he had a cold. He'd leave this lie for his business partners; maybe he'd be able to make it more believable by then.

"Sir?" Alice, the changeable PA, inquired tentatively. She didn't even try concealing the small smile playing on her lips.

"I need you to take these documents. Make a copy and send it. The address is in the file." He instructing, ignoring the amused looks he was getting from the woman. Mycroft loaded his PA with work so that she wouldn't look up from her Blackberry for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, hiding in the office for the day was not an option.

"Mycroft, it's so unfortunate that you got sick," Mycroft's interlocutor said with a mock concern as soon as the man settled in a chair across from the owner of the office. "Early Spring can be deceptive. If you won't be careful it can be so easy to get caught up in the warmth and forget about the precautions."

"Oh, it's nothing, really." Mycroft answered, keeping his annoyance to himself, making his voice sound pleasant. He waved his hand, running his fingers over the material of the scarf softly. "Just a small cold. I'll be better in no time."

"Sure," the man across from Mycroft put his elbows on the armrests and looked at Mycroft pointedly over his entwined fingers. "I really hope it doesn't mean that you are losing your authority. If such a small weakness could get to you…"

Mycroft actually rolled his eyes at this. That's why he hated dealing with his man. His love for theatrics, for idiotic metaphors and for making parallels between weather and policy – that was very annoying. And also took too much of Mycroft's precious time.

"There are a few things I need to discuss about your campaign." It was best to just get the visitor back on track. He was a politician, not a shady one like Mycroft, on the contrary, a stupid but useful public figure.

"Are you sure you're capable of it?" The man asked, tossing his blond hair from his eyes with a practiced move of his head. So full of himself, Mycroft thought in aggravation. "I mean, with your cold…"

Mycroft stared at the fool in his office, who believed he could outthink a Holmes. It'd be reasonable to let him continue thinking that way, but Mycroft's pride wouldn't let him. Slowly he ran his fingers over the scarf, tugging it a little as if to weaken the knot. His interlocutor's eyes, watching the politician with humor, fell on an unmistakable bruise just over the collar of Mycroft's shirt. The man's eyes widened, surprised, glued to the spot. He had a decently to turn away after a minute of staring, which was a minute too long by Holmes' rules, and coughed awkwardly.

"I need you to attend an opening of this exhibition tomorrow night." Mycroft said nonchalantly, handing the man a booklet. His interlocutor took it without any comments.

Oh well, so what if it cost him some embarrassment, he put the fool in place. Having a good love life was also a way to state his superiority.

That didn't mean that Lestrade was not going to pay for it, though, Mycroft thought with a smirk.

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**A/N: **That's my first story that had got more than 50 reviews. That's so exciting. Thank you, dear readers, who reviewed, and also alerted and added this story to favorites:)


	14. Protecting

**A/N:** I have no idea about where in the series we learn Sebastian's last name, but according to fanfiction sites it's Moran. Also I don't know much about policy or bank business, so please bear with my attempt to write a 'business talk'.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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_The fourteenth change made Mycroft reconsider his idea of a knight in shining armor…_

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_**Protecting**_

"Mycroft, long time no see."

"Sebastian, it's a pleasure to meet you again," Mycroft returned the greeting, shaking the banker's hand over the table.

Sebastian Moran was quick to answer Mycroft's request for a meeting, that's why the politician even bothered asking. He knew that the banker was a man of business. Else his bank wouldn't be successful.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm sure my PA had already informed you." Her name was Antiope that day, she probably felt exceptionally creative lately.

"That was just a common courtesy."

"Of course," Mycroft replied. He sat back in the leather chair, the umbrella hanging from the armrest. "I'm looking for an investor. For a friend. And I know that your bank is a reliable partner."

"An investment, hm?" Sebastian drawled, tossing some papers on his desk. "I think I can manage it. Will it be worth it?"

"It won't be direct. I prefer more subtle ways," Mycroft made a pause waiting for Sebastian to acknowledge it and, after the man nodded thoughtfully, continued. "A donation for a project. You can trust me, everything is legal. And you can be sure it'd be profitable for you, too."

"Good," Sebastian nodded.

The banker's eyes gazed at Mycroft with a hint of a smile in them, obviously pleased with the deal.

"It's so much more pleasurable to deal with you than with your insolent brother." He said suddenly, still smiling.

No matter how good at business he was, Sebastian wasn't very good at reading people. Probably that's why he didn't notice how Mycroft's smile froze on his lips, corners of his mouth tensing as not to fall into a frown.

"I heard about that case. Surprising, how you went to Sherlock for help," a tiny stab, not enough to actually wound but enough to make the banker less comfortable with his own comment.

"Well, I'm not stupid. I know that your brother is good at what he does. Whatever it is…I mean, what does he call his job?" Sebastian frowned and looked aside in recollection.

"Consulting detective, I believe," Mycroft replied coolly.

"Oh yes," Sebastian nodded. "I was surprised to meet his 'friend'."

"Doctor Watson? He's a good man," Mycroft didn't elaborate. Rumors could be very useful in his sphere, but that did not mean he liked to spread them.

"Sure." Sebastian said carelessly. "At least they solved the crime. Unlike the police."

The last part was added with a chuckle as the banker's laughing eyes watched Mycroft.

"I'm sure the police had done everything in their power." Mycroft was paltering, but that was more a matter of principle for him.

As no one other than Mycroft Holmes could taunt Sherlock, none were allowed to berate the Yard in his presence either. That was very subjective, he understood, but at the same time there was nothing he can do with it. Mycroft couldn't let others abuse people dear to him.

"Of course," Sebastian scoffed, clearly not impressed with the police.

Not long ago, Mycroft would have ignored the comment completely, brushing it off without even analyzing, but now he naturally took the insult personally. The man took a deep breath, leveling a man across him with a cold stare, giving Sebastian one last chance to realize that Mycroft was far from pleased with his attitude. Thankfully, the banker was a clever man, who immediately sensed that something was off.

"What?" He asked throwing up his hands. "Are you going to defend them?"

"No. Of course not." Mycroft replied with a smile, cold as his eyes. "I think the Yard can live without me defending them. I'm just making a point."

Sebastian nodded, serious now. He knew when to step back and not to get into an argument with a man who came with a benefiting proposition.

"I got your point," the banker placated and Mycroft nodded tensely. "Shall we get back to business?"

The meeting went smoothly after that. Hours later Mycroft was sitting in the car, on his way back to the office, talking on the phone with Lestrade.

"A stressful day?" The DI asked after a minute of silence.

"What makes you think that?" Mycroft inquired, relaxing on a comfortable backseat.

"You snapped at me for saying that you sound snappish today. And that was a joke, by the way," Lestrade chuckled on the other end.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft apologized tiredly. He looked out the window at the city he accepted as his domain.

"So, it _is_ a stressful day," Lestrade stated instead of asking this time.

"Probably."

"Can I help?"

"It's already getting better."

"Oh, good then." Lestrade replied softly. There was sound of rustling papers on his end of the line.

"Busy?" Mycroft asked, ready to end the call but not really wanting to.

"It's fine. I need a distraction."

"So am I a distraction now?" His tone sounded only a little bit playful.

"You know what I meant, Mycroft."

"I guess…" there was also a sigh at the end of the sentence.

"Actually, I defended your honor today." Lestrade said suddenly, his voice betraying a smile Mycroft could not see.

"Did you, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, frowning through his own smile.

"Oh yes. I guess you should call me your knight in shining armor from now on."

"Oh, I doubt I will, but do tell."

"We'll see." Lestrade laughed lowly. "So, today…"

"Today…" Mycroft repeated, adding a question mark at the end.

"Sherlock helped me with a case. You know how he can get, its better with John around but still he can be very…"

"Eccentric?" Mycroft supplied.

"Yes. So one of my policemen said 'I pity a family that had to endure such a crazy man as Sherlock Holmes'," Lestrade said, slowly recollecting the exact words.

"That's not very nice," Mycroft commented, not putting much feeling into it.

"That's what I thought. So I told him not to worry, because Sherlock's relatives are just as crazy."

"That's…not very nice as well."

Lestrade kept silent except from a one small chuckle.

"Why do I even bother talking to you?" The politician asked rhetorically.

"Well, obviously you find something in me," the DI retorted. "As I find something in you."

"For me it's obviously not your sense of humor. As for you…I sincerely hope that this _something_ is not my political power."

"Why would I need that?" Lestrade was outright laughing now.

"Indeed…" Mycroft said thoughtfully. The car was slowing down and he looked out of the window to see that they'd arrived at their destination. Antiope was already waiting on the sidewalk, ready to join him in the car and attack him with reports and schedules. "Well, my knight in shining armor," he drawled sarcastically, "The mundane work is there to whisk me away from you."

"That's very unfortunate."

"It surely is," tired of exaggerated dramatics, Mycroft laughed softly.

"Talk to you later?" Lestrade inquired gently.

"Of course. Good bye."

Mycroft hung up, looking at his phone thoughtfully and thinking that he should probably let Sebastian offend the Yard as much as he wanted. They surely got on well without his protection.


	15. Waiting For The Storm

**A/N: **Dear readers, you probably aren't going to be pleased with me for this chapter, but I realized that I can't always show only one side of their relationship. Also I probably have to say that this story is the way I see Mycroft and Lestrade.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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_The fifteenth change made Mycroft admit that without thunder and rain there still can be a storm…_

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_**Waiting For The Storm**_

The sky was full with heavy dark grey clouds. Mycroft followed their path across the sky through the large window as he sat in his chair, back to the desk. It was cool in his office, but he knew that, should he step outside, he'd be suffocated with fog and muggy humidity, the heavy kind that comes before the storm. But there was no storm. Only an anticipation.

The clock on the wall showed fifteen minutes after the lunch break started, his PA had already left, but not before glancing around the office, her eyes searching for the familiar figure of the DI. The secretary was still there; her break started sharply half an hour later after the PA's ended. Mycroft though was still in the office; he was not in the mood to eat, was not hungry and he knew that Lestrade was not coming.

Mycroft's fingers slid over the handle of the umbrella, resisting from grabbing it and gripping so tight that the palm of his hand would hurt. He leaned on it, using it as leverage as he stood up and took one step to the window. Cool polished wood helped to calm his restless mind, thoughts running through his head tirelessly. In that sense, as well as many others, though he refused to admit it, Mycroft was similar to Sherlock, both brothers constantly thinking, always analyzing. Most of the time, the older Holmes was grateful for that trait, but not at that moment. Right now he just wanted to forget the conversation with Lestrade the previous evening.

"_Mycroft-"_

"_Gregory, I think I've given you many reasons why it's not a good idea already." Mycroft replied with a sigh, tired of repeating the same thing many times._

"_And I told you that those reasons are insignificant." The DI argued, his hazel eyes boring into his partner, while Mycroft's skimmed over the front page of the paper in his hands._

_The politician tore his eyes from the page and looked skeptically at the DI._

"_Mycroft, it's not as bad as you picture it. I don't have many friends, with my work they are mostly colleagues, but I still want you to meet them." Lestrade put his elbows on the table, ignoring an irritated glance of his partner, and leaned forward. "We are together but I still don't know much about you."_

"_From my point of view," Mycroft replied, softer now but still not looking up. "You know everything that matters."_

"_I understand that." Lestrade's hand slowly slid over the table, reaching for his partner's and uncurling Mycroft's fingers from the cup he was holding, taking them in his own. "But I want you to be part of my life. To know people I consider my friends. And, as a matter of fact, I'd like to be introduced to some of your friends sometime in the future."_

"_I have allies and enemies. No friends."_

"_That's not true."_

"_I wonder what makes you think that?" Mycroft asked, lowering his eyes back to the paper, considering the matter closed with a question that, unfortunately for him, the DI didn't find rhetorical._

"_I know that you are detached and all business, but you are just a human, Mycroft. Even Sherlock has a friend, and you are more sociable than him."_

"_That's not a reason." He replied coolly._

"_Do you have to be so aggravating?" Lestrade asked, voice tense as he leaned back in his chair._

"_Absolutely." Mycroft answered, not even looking up. Truth be told, he was getting frustrated with this talk._

_He heard his partner breathe out noisily to calm himself._

Mycroft, rather ungracefully, flopped back into the chair he knew was standing right behind him. His eyes didn't leave the depressing scenery. He was waiting for a storm to start.

While his eyes followed the progress of the dark grey clouds, his thoughts returned to a subject he attempted to ignore the whole morning. Mycroft knew he had problems with human communication as bad as his brother did; they were not as obvious though. While Sherlock wasn't aware of any social rules, Mycroft knew them by heart, which didn't help him to keep any relationship which wasn't useful for his work.

Mycroft Holmes pushed people away; worse even, he pushed away those who cared for him and for whom he started caring in return. He hurt people closest to him. Harsh comments, sarcastic remarks and cold words came naturally to his mind. When he is in the company of colleagues he chooses thoroughly whether to voice them or not. When he it is not at a business meeting, he lets himself relax a little; without thinking, not meaning to, he offends his lover, his brother, his friends. At those moments his practical mind supports him with an excuse that they'd forgive him, because they know that he doesn't really mean it. As it turns out later, Mycroft is much better at playing than he expects and they turn away and become estranged. Maybe that's what happened with Sherlock, Mycroft muses, or maybe it was the lot of other issues between the brothers.

Right now the one moving away is Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft doesn't want the old scenario to repeat.

"_As if you in the Yard ever do anything useful," They both knew it was not true, but it still was hurtful and Mycroft was silently cursing himself for been unable to miss an opportunity to make a sarcastic comment. _

"_Of course," Lestrade retorted, managing to sound sarcastic and resigned at the same time. "You don't need us, simple mortals, to be involved in your big games."_

"_That's not what I meant."_

"_Yes, I know," he replied coldly._

Mycroft loved thunderstorms. Times when the nature was at its strongest; wild wind, rain tapping heavily on the pavement. But what was the best – was the blinding white lightning, drawing spontaneous patterns on the dark sky and the mighty sound that comes after that. Rolling around the city, resonating from the ground and then down from the clouds.

Thunderstorms were beautiful. And when Mycroft watched the sky, awaiting the rain that just did not start no matter how much he wished for it, he longed for something beautiful. A nice distraction, to make time go faster, until the lunch break would be over and his PA would return with a load of work to do.

Swirling his chair around in a half circle, Mycroft turned to the desk. He glanced at the phone, the one with his personal number, lying apathetically on top of a paper pile, and swirled again to face the window. Throwing his head back, he closed his eyes briefly.

"_Where are you taking me?" Mycroft asked from his place on the front seat of Lestrade's car, the other man driving__. __He was somewhat suspicious of what his lover wanted to do._

"_Well, I decided that for once we can do something more 'common' than a fancy restaurant." Lestrade smirked as he glanced at his passenger._

"_Such as?"_

"_I was thinking about movies?"_

"_Isn't it what youngsters do?"_

"_Not only. It's perfectly normal for two grown man to watch a movie. That is, unless, you are not scared of a crowd of strangers." Lestrade teased lightly, glancing at the other man briefly._

"_Why would I be?" Mycroft scoffed. Truth be told, he felt slightly uncomfortable imagining himself among a crowd of people, not the suave and polite type he was used to dealing with. But he decided that he could endure all the nosiness of a crowd for the sake of a date with Gregory Lestrade._

_The rest of the ride could have passed in relative silence if not for the sound of the British anthem coming from Mycroft's phone. The politician took it from his breast pocket swiftly, frowning at the screen but answering nonetheless. He pushed the green button and waited for the caller to speak first. _

_Lestrade stole another glance at him before returning his eyes back to the road._

"_Problems?" He asked, concerned with a serious expression on Mycroft's face._

"_It seems so," the politician answered, ending the call. "I'm sorry, Gregory, but I need to be back at the office right now."_

"_No movies?" Lestrade asked, without any hope, just because he needed to say something. Just because he wanted a way to express his disappointment without outright pronouncing it._

"_I'm sorry," Mycroft repeated for the loss of any words. "You know how hectic my schedule can be."_

"_Yeah, I know," Lestrade replied with the heavy reminding of all their previously cancelled dates just in the tone of his voice. He slowed the car and took the nearest turn to the right, intent on driving Mycroft to the man's office building despite his annoyance. It's not his fault after all. It's no one's fault actually, that they both are so busy and constant emergency calls do not surprise any of them, but it still stings every time one of them has to run away to do their job. The fact that Mycroft is the one leaving more often just serves to irritate Lestrade more at that moment._

After that there were more quarrels, mostly about Lestrade wanting to introduce his lover to other aspects of his life and in return learn more about Mycroft's. He thought he wasn't asking for much, but from Mycroft's point of view it was actually a lot. He built his life around his work and family, not letting those two sides collide if he could help it. He made walls around them, a lot of layers to protect his personal and professional interests. And now some man just wanted to be let into those well-kept secrets. Some man…well, that was probably a very big understatement.

Mycroft's eyes lingered on a particularly dark cloud in the distance, hoping maybe it will bring the long awaited downpour. Rain always put Mycroft's mind at ease, relaxing and calming him. And thunderstorms made him feel more confident and powerful. He needed that feeling of mental strength at that moment.

His fingers brushed warm glass, seeking coolness that wasn't there.

Rain to relieve his pain. Pathetic, Mycroft thought.

The old clock chimed the new hour in the small library adjacent to his office. Lunch hour was over. No more over-dramatic musings, time to get back to work. As always. Mycroft turned away from the window.

* * *

**A/N: **The continuation of this particular chapter **is be posted as a separate story** because I used a different POV for it so it doesn't fit in _**Changing Habits**_. It is called _**Rain Starts. **_Please read and leave me a review:)


	16. Laughter

**A/N:** I feel compelled to repeat that the second part of the previous chapter is posted separately. It's the story called **_Rain Starts_**. I used another POV there.

This is a new chapter, it happens sometimes after the _Rain Starts. _I actually googled lame jokes to write this. I hope they are not too bad. And I hope you'll like this chapter. Please, leave me a review:)

**Beta: **OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_The sixteenth change simply made him laugh…_

* * *

**_Laughter_**

Mycroft's fingers tapped on the tabletop, slightly out of tune, but it didn't matter because the melody existed only in his mind. It was a lovely morning, one when even Mycroft Holmes felt a little lazy. He was sitting in the familiar café, his body half turned to the window, watching people scurry about under the warm morning sun. Lestrade was sitting across from him and, even though Mycroft's mind was elsewhere, he could feel the DI's eyes on him.

"I agree that the play on the whole was nice, but some of the actors playing minor characters were simply awful. Thankfully their parts were too small to completely destroy my opinion of the play. And before you say it, I am not fastidious." Mycroft was saying into his phone, the feeling of Lestrade's gaze still as intense as before.

Mycroft Holmes didn't have many friends. Didn't have any at all some people would say, which technically wasn't true. There were people he enjoyed talking to. It may only be one person or two, but he didn't need more – he was content with what he had, in the sense of a social life at least. He turned his attention back to the conversation, his right hand holding the phone loosely. He laughed, his fingers stopping the tapping and reaching for the tea cup.

After a few more lines exchanged with his interlocutor on the other end of the line, Mycroft said his goodbye and disconnected.

"I'm sorry that you had to wait for me to end the conversation," he turned to Lestrade.

"I told you it's fine. You had to wait for me again; it's good you found something to pass time," the DI waved one hand vaguely, disregarding the matter. Then he asked curiously and a little hesitantly. "Who was that?"

"A friend," Mycroft replied, not avoiding the subject but not wanting to elaborate either. It was such a pleasant morning and he wanted to spend time pointlessly chatting with his partner. "Isn't the weather lovely?" He asked, contently taking a sip of his tea.

"Yes, it is." Lestrade let the question slide, taking a mental note to ask about it later. He leaned back in his own chair and stared pensively at the man across from him.

"Is something wrong?" Mycroft asked with a small frown.

Nothing at all," the other man answered truthfully, but his hazel eyes were still locked on Mycroft's face.

"Do I have something on my face?" He asked instead.

"No," Lestrade said, still watching closely.

"Then why are you staring at me?"

"You laughed."

"Well…" Mycroft thought how to respond to that. He settled for pointing out the obvious. "Yes, I did."

"But you rarely laugh. You smile, you smirk and sometimes you chuckle. But hardly ever laugh."

"There are not many things worth laughing at. Except my enemies' failures, of course." The last part was dripped with sarcasm even though it was very much true, but Lestrade could do better without knowing it.

"Then why were you laughing right now?"

"A good joke," Mycroft replied and took a discarded cup of tea in his hand again as a subtle hint for the other man to drop the subject. Lestrade, as the clever Detective Inspector he was, let it go, bringing up a strangely funny theft case that was closed an hour after the theft took place; without the help from Sherlock.

After minutes of idle chatting though, Lestrade suddenly asked: "What kind of horses go out after dusk?"

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked in confusion at the change of subject. Very sudden and obscure.

"What kind of horses go out after dusk?" The DI repeated patiently, he was leaning over the table, his expression serious and waiting for the answer.

"Any kind," Mycroft answered, but it sounded more like a question.

"Nightmares," Lestrade gave the right answer and waited for the other's reaction.

"Was that…supposed to be a joke?" The politician asked slowly, barely containing himself not to make it sound sarcastic in favor of his lover. Mycroft was working on containing this side of his character, holding back the biting remarks and exaggerated eye rolls completed with lifted eyebrows. He didn't want it to come in the way of his relationship with Gregory. So instead his tone was flat and almost emotionless, head titled to the side, eyes curiously on Lestrade's face.

"Yes," Lestrade replied with a small sigh, obviously exasperated with his misfortune with the joke.

"It's not really good."

"Probably," the DI breathed out, slumping back in the chair. "The best I can come up with on short notice."

Mycroft just watched him in amusement.

The next day the moment Mycroft took his place at the table across from Lestrade he was greeted with a question: "How do you start a book about ducks?"

"I have no idea," the politician replied, taking the menu and paying it more attention than to his lover's attempt at a joke.

"With an introduction."

"I'm sorry I can't even smile at that," Mycroft said, a real regret appearing in his voice. Then he asked casually. "How was your day so far?"

"Ask me about it later. What do you get when you squeeze an olive?"

He only got a flat look as an answer.

"Oliver Twist!" Lestrade proclaimed happily.

"That…" Mycroft thought for the right words to express his feeling towards that particular joke, "was a bad joke."

"I know," the DI sighed dejectedly.

"I was thinking maybe a really lame joke would work…Obviously, no."

"Obviously," Mycroft confirmed with a nod. "I heard Sherlock broke into the victim's house again."

"What's brown and sticky?" Lestrade asked, ignoring Mycroft's question.

"A stick," he said, letting the irritation show in his tone. He looked up from the menu when the actual punch line didn't follow. Lestrade was staring at him.

"You know this joke?" He asked.

Mycroft just stared back at him before repeating it in his mind and realizing that he unintentionally gave the 'right' answer. The joke still wasn't funny. He shook his head from side to side and turned to the waitress who had just appeared at their table with the order. Lestrade did not pay much attention to the waitress, looking at his lover contemplatively instead.

"Did you hear the joke about the jump rope?" He asked when the girl left.

Mycroft thought for a moment before saying:

"Skip it." He smirked as the other man frowned.

"Did you hear the joke about the airplane?" Lestrade asked hurriedly, prompting his lover to formulate his answer just as quickly.

"It's way over your head." His smirk was more prominent this time.

Lestrade's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Maybe it wasn't good for their relationship but Mycroft rather enjoyed this game.

"What did the apple say to the orange?"

"Apples don't talk."

"Actually it's 'Nothing, stupid, apples don't talk.' I think you left out a rather important part, don't you?"

"I think this joke will never be funny no matter what."

"Hm…" It seemed that the DI decided to change tactics. He leaned back in his chair, settling comfortably, his position open and relaxed. "How about this one?"

Mycroft waited and watched his lover take a big gulp of his coffee, take a breath, relax even more and start talking.

"A neutron walks into a bar and asks 'How much for a beer?'" Lestrade made a pause for the effect. "And the bartender says, 'For you? No charge.'"

"Better, but still not laugh-worthy." Mycroft commented.

"Two atoms are walking down the street together." Lestrade quickly moved on to the other joke. "The first atom turns and says, 'Hey, you just stole an electron from me!' 'Are you sure?' asks the second atom. To which the first atom replies, 'Yeah, I'm positive!'"

Mycroft contemplated the joke silently, then nodded. It was a nice try; he wasn't admitting it to his lover though.

"Oh come on," Lestrade said in frustration. "It's almost intellectual."

"Almost is the key word here. Plus I'm not a scientist. If I was, I probably could have appreciated this joke more." Mycroft added a consolation and combined it with a smile.

"I can't win this, can I?" The DI asked finally.

"Lame jokes will always be lame. They are not funny." Mycroft frowned. "I'm not sure that they are supposed to be funny."

"But the way they are so unfunny can actually make them funny." Lestrade contradicted.

"You are making it sound more complicated than it is." They sat in silence for another moment until Lestrade broke it, his tone devoid of any emotion and words quick but not hurried:

"Why can't you play cards in the jungle?" A pause for a beat. "Because there's too many cheetahs!"

He didn't wait for his lover's reaction this time.

"'Waiter! This coffee tastes like mud'." A pause. "'Yes sir, it's fresh ground'."

"What did Batman say to Robin before they got in the car? Robin, get in the car."

The last one deigned a raised eyebrow from Mycroft, who was amazed with the sheer stupidity of the supposed joke. Lestrade continued nonetheless:

"Have you ever seen an elephant hiding behind a flower? That's because he hides well."

"Gregory," Mycroft lifted one hand as a sign for his lover to stop. "Please, I can take no more of this torture."

The look on Lestrade's face was priceless. Who would have thought that the DI could look like _that_. A 'kicked puppy' didn't quite fit to describe it. The expression was exasperation mixed with annoyance and bordering on a pout. Mycroft just couldn't help himself. He chuckled. And then he started laughing. The low but full-force laughter filled the silence between them. His eyes, shining with mirth, locked with confused hazel.

"Those jokes are as far from funny as it can get," he said after his laughter died down. "But the way you are trying to make me laugh is very amusing."

"Laugh-worthy?" Lestrade asked, repeating Mycroft's words from earlier with a chuckle.

"Definitely," Mycroft replied.

They both laughed.


	17. Midnight talk

**A/N: **_Changing Habits_ for me is a story where I can experiment. So this time I decided to try writing a dialog chapter. I've never done it but always wanted to try. I hope it's not too difficult to understand who is saying what.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_The seventeenth change made Mycroft unexpectedly talkative…_

* * *

_**Midnight talk**_

"Hello."

"I think you know me well enough to realize that I prefer phone calls to texting."

"Actually I was being considerate. Since it's half past midnight I decided I'd better send a text first. You know, test the waters first, in case you were sleeping."

"It's just half past midnight. I'm still in the office."

"Hm…of course. How could I have thought otherwise?"

"Why are you calling?"

"Can't I?"

"You can. Of course you can. It's just…"

"What?"

"No one calls me just for the sake of calling. I'm a busy man, I'll tell you."

"I know. How is it that Sherlock calls you? 'British government'?"

"I'll tell this to you. And only you. He's not too far from the truth."

"I don't doubt it. So, oh mighty, what are you doing?"

"Working, obviously."

"Isn't it too late for work?"

"Try and tell me that you aren't at the Yard still."

"Am not."

"Oh, really?"

"The door of the Yard has just closed behind my back. I'm on my way to the car."

"Oh, so that's where the swishing sound is coming from."

"It's just wind…Are you trying to make a joke?"

"No, of course not. How could you even think of such a thing?"

"Yeah…So, let your poor tired PA go and gather your umbrella…which I know you have with you even though it was a sunny today."

"You never know when the rain will start."

"That's what the weather forecast is for."

"You can be so naïve sometimes."

"Anyway. Are you on your way out?"

"No. Why?"

"I'm picking you up in…five minutes. Grab the umbrella and go. Out. Out."

"Are you trying to command me, Detective Inspector?"

"I am commanding."

"Interesting…"

"Oh, is it?"

"Yes. Very."

"So, going out?"

"Already there."

* * *

"Good evening, Mycroft."

"I'd say it's night already; if not morning."

"Let me guess. You are in your office."

"Where else?"

"Well, I am at home. I wanted to pick you up, but couldn't reach you."

"I had a meeting. But that's top secret information."

"You sound tired."

"I am."

"Forget the work. Go home. Sleep."

"I will. I just have to finish with this…sorry; I can't tell you what this is."

"Finish quickly."

"Good night."

* * *

"Another late phone call?"

"Don't tell me you don't enjoy it, Mycroft."

"I have a surprise for you…"

"Nice try to evade my last question, but I'll pretend I didn't notice it."

"I'd be very grateful."

"So? You wanted to surprise me?"

"I'm not in the office."

"Well, that's an improvement. It's midnight. You are at home, I take it."

"Not quite."

"Meaning?"

"I'm at your home, Gregory."

"Oh…Bed?"

"No, sofa. I took the liberty of looking through your liquor cabinet. This wine is not half bad…"

"I'm glad it suits your tastes."

"Are you implying that I'm picky?"

"Not at all."

"Good, because I was about to agree with that point."

"I only got one question. How did you get into my house?"

"I prefer to keep my methods to myself."

"…"

"Instead of discussing minor questions, I'd better suggest you leave work and head home. The sooner, the better."

"Already on my way."

* * *

"What's your favorite color?"

"I think I'm too old for pointless questions like that."

"Oh, come on. Just answer."

"Why are we doing this, again?"

"Because phone conversations can be fun. Especially when we both are stuck in the office, separate offices I have to underline, when it's way past our working hours."

"But I don't talk for the sake of talking. Not on the phone."

"Well, better late than never. So, what's your favorite color…?"

* * *

"Morning."

"Morning? Really, Gregory. It's half past four. Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Hm…"

"Sorry. I shouldn't have called. I woke you up…"

"No, you didn't."

"You are only saying it to make me feel better."

"Yes, I am. But it doesn't matter. Is something bothering you?"

"Heh, so there is such a thing as a sensitive Holmes. Nice to know."

"What's wrong, Gregory?"

"Why do you always call me by my full name?"

"I like how it sounds. Now, about my question..?"

"It's nothing…just work getting to me. Let's talk about you."

"You know how much I don't like that. But considering the circumstances, I'll allow you three questions."

"Fine with me. So…let me think…I can ask anything and you'll answer?"

"You can ask anything and I'll consider."

"Sounds unfair…But, doesn't matter."

"First question?"

"Why are you always fighting with Sherlock?"

"We are…too similar. He thinks us to be polar opposites and makes it his reason to contradict me in everything. I'd say we are too similar; we think alike, we view the world alike. That's why we don't get along. I can only compare it to the way two positively charged substances experience a mutual repulsive force."

"And you said that you were no scientist."

"It's the middle of the night; I can be excused for inappropriate metaphors."

"Haha…When did you decide you wanted to have something…more with me?"

"When you started stealing my umbrella."

"Why don't I recall doing anything like that?"

"Because from your point of view it was you being polite and gentleman-like. For me, it was you stealing my umbrella. Everytime we met."

"Oh, that's what you mean."

"Stop laughing."

"I'm not. It's just a chuckle. You have to admit, that it's a little funny. And sweet."

"I'm about to disconnect."

"Don't. I can _hear_ the smile in your voice. And I've got one more question left."

"Ask."

"Sorry, you are obviously tired."

"Just ask."

"Do you believe in luck?"

"I think I already expressed my opinion on the matter."

"Yes or no, Mycroft. It's easy."

"Yes…"

"Good. Because now you are going to believe me when I say that I consider myself very lucky to have met you. A man who'd talk to me in the middle of the night."

"I…"

"Go to sleep. You need it."

"You too."

"Yeah…Good night, Mycroft."

"Good night."

* * *

**A/N: **I'm sorry but **there will not be an update next week**. I'm leaving for some time. But I will be back by the end of July and I promise to update as soon as I can. Also I've got some oneshots unrelated to _Changing Habits_ and you'll see them after I return as well.


	18. Colours

**A/N:** So, I'm back; rested and sunburned, but that's the only small thing that can not deter my good mood. Enjoy the new chapter, it's pure summer fluff:)

**Beta: **OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_The eighteenth change made Mycroft's world explode with colours…_

* * *

_**Colours**_

The silvery surface of the rearview mirror blinded Mycroft for a moment as the streaming sunlight reflected from it. His eyes fluttered closed until they adjusted and he could see his reflection without cringing. Eyes, a deep blue with flecks of steely grey stared back at him and Mycroft wondered when his eyes became so expressive. The car was empty, safe for him; the driver has left at the demand of his boss. Through the front window the green of the trees was visible, fresh and bright as the summer itself. As June came the very air seemed to change, shift and bend, bringing the vivacity to the atmosphere. The water of every fountain in London seemed to sparkle in the light of the sun and Mycroft couldn't reject himself the pleasure of walking around the city with Gregory. That's exactly what he was planning do with his free day.

Mycroft looked out of the window, tinted glass lowered to let the soft wind in, waiting for the familiar figure to emerge from the building of the New Scotland Yard.

His gaze caught sight of silver grey. He loved Gregory's early greying hair, it made the man unique. The saturated blue of his shirt was an unexpected touch because Mycroft was used to seeing him wearing white shirts, mostly shamelessly stolen from Mycroft's wardrobe. The colour was deep and beautiful, bringing thoughts of a summer sky without a single cloud.

Mycroft moved on the backseat of the car, sliding over the cool leather noiselessly, so he was situated closer to the door. The next moment it was opened from the outside, a hand extended palm up and ready for Mycroft to take and be dragged out of the stiff air of his car. He took it, of course, and was immediately pulled outside, waiting to see the face of his lover but instead his gaze first fell on a flower held up to his face. Bright red with sparks of pink at the edges of long slim petals – a gerbera. Not caring to analyze the meaning of the flower, Mycroft took it, green stem held between two fingers with care, and lifted his head to finally meet the eyes of Gregory Lestrade. Warm and captivating hazel was the center of his world for mere moments until he remembered how to think properly and greeted the other man.

Mycroft didn't pay attention to his surroundings as they walked, for minutes or maybe hours, but that didn't matter because it was a lovely summer day and Gregory was right beside him, looking so casual but still gorgeous in that blue shirt; the warm brown of his eyes never left Mycroft's gaze for longer than a minute. He was feeling lazy and strangely happy, letting Gregory lead him wherever he wanted, trusting the man completely.

A lot of green registered in his peripheral vision and Mycroft looked away, realizing that they had ended up in the park, maybe unintentionally seeing how Gregory's eyes gleamed with surprised amusement. But that was even better because now instead of the dull greys and blacks of the city streets there was green everywhere, emerald and lime and bottle green, dark in the shadows and nearly transparent to the light of the sun. Sun, a bright and yellow ball, with small fluffy white clouds unable to conceal its glory no matter how hard they tried.

And then they stepped on a small bridge with its sandy coloured banisters and the dark blue water underneath. Almost black, not the boring black but deep with patches of reflected light. And then their reflections in the water. A warm possessive hand slung across his waist, gentle finger sliding under his jacket to glide over his hip.

Mycroft, unable to stop watching how the reflection of Lestrade leaned closer to the reflection of Mycroft Holmes to press a fleeting kiss to his temple. He looked up, one hand reaching for Lestrade's free hand, squeezing it lightly, while his gaze took in a beautiful picture before him. How strange, he thought, all that is needed is a presence of one man to make my world explode with colours.


	19. I Miss You

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

_The nineteenth change showed Mycroft that it was normal to express his feelings to the people he cared about… _

* * *

_**I Miss You**_

Like it was proven multiple times, Mycroft Holmes did have feelings. He may not have shown it, preferring to keep it to himself, but his mind and soul, or whatever you like to associate with emotions, were bubbling with feelings. Right at that moment it was sweet longing with a pinch of melancholy, sadness without bitterness, overflowed with beautiful memories. Memories of one person and one person only, no matter how cheesy that sounded.

Mycroft Holmes missed Gregory Lestrade. It was the fifth day that they had not seen each other. What left an easy feeling in his heart though was that it wasn't because of some stupid fight and that the feeling was requited. If the constant flow of text messages and night calls was anything to judge by, Lestrade missed him as much and didn't hesitate to show it.

_I miss you.__GL_

It was the last message Mycroft got from his lover. He found himself still looking at it hours later, laying in a luxurious hotel bed, holding the phone in one hand, its screen the only source of light in the room. The timer read 04.16 a.m. and he knew it was around 2 a.m. in London. Lestrade probably was already at home, sleeping away another day of hard work, the message been sent when he was still in the Yard. But those were just guesses based on Mycroft's knowledge of the other man.

It was absurd how Mycroft couldn't bring himself to answer that particular text. He missed Lestrade, but it seemed that it'd be too sentimental of him to admit it. He scoffed internally, imagining himself acting like a love sick teenager sending mushy texts to his crush.

At the same time, Mycroft's mind supplied, it was absolutely normal to tell the person you cared about that you want them by your side. The screen light went out, leaving the man in the complete darkness until he slid his finger over it, reviving his phone again. Lestrade's message stared back at him, unchanged.

He missed Lestrade. Missed his voice, low and scratchy as he speaks and husky as a whisper. Missed how the man always would say 'I'm happy to see you' even if they parted for less than an hour. Missed their talks, light banter over the simple things and even the teasing on Lestrade's part. He missed his touch, gentle and strong, sometimes feverish and hurried and sometimes torturously slow. He missed the kisses, breathtaking and beautiful...Now he actually did sound like a teenager. How disgraceful. With that thought Mycroft put down the phone and turned on his side, away from the bedside table, hoping to get some sleep to gather energy for a meeting the following day. It seemed to be impossible as his thoughts inevitably returned to the text and the man who sent it.

Mycroft turned to lie on his back again, staring unseeingly at the dark ceiling. His hand reached to the bedside drawer, fumbling for the phone. A weak light lit the room again. Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh.

Carefully and hesitantly his fingers found the right buttons.

_I_

He typed and stalled. For the duration of a minute he just looked at the screen, a number he knew by heart over the start of the message. Not allowing himself time to think, jus relying on his feelings, he continued.

_I miss you_

Now. Done. Mycroft's eyes ran over the words one time, before he added one more word and pressed Send.

Many miles away, Gregory Lestrade was woken up from his light sleep by the sound of his phone signaling the arrival of a new message, wondering who'd send him a text at 2.37 a.m. He held a thin hope that it wasn't a matter of another brutal murder, since his team had just closed a particularly nasty case that day. Deliberately slowly he reached for the phone and opened the text.

_I miss you, too._

Lestrade smiled, noticing the lack of the usual _MH_ at the end, which somehow made the message even more personal. He re-read the simple words, smile not leaving his face. He didn't feel angry at being woken up any more. He put away the phone and fell into a blissful sleep, his last thought of his lover.


	20. Silhouette

**A/N: **I think that this chapter has no point. It started with an image that got stuck in my head and I felt like I had to include it in this story. But I still hope you'll enjoy it and leave me a review.

Also, please, read the A/N at the end.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_The twentieth change taught Mycroft that there are simple things that should be treasured…_

* * *

_**Silhouette**_

When he woke up there was a silhouette in the doorway. The room was still dark but there was a soft light coming from the corridor, barely strong enough to light up the figure of a man. It was impossible to make out the expression on his face with the light falling from behind, but Mycroft thought that he already knew it. Hoped that he was familiar enough with this wonderful man to understand him.

Strangely Mycroft always thought that he'd be the one woken up at all hours of the night and rushing to deal with yet another crisis in the government. And here he was with half of the night still ahead of him to sleep peacefully until he had to wake up and leave for work while Lestrade got a call from the Yard. More specifically, Mycroft suspected it was from Molly Hooper who was working late in the morgue again and probably found something interesting and of great significance for the case; which of course couldn't wait until morning, the man though sarcastically. The young woman needed to get a personal life. Mycroft made a mental note to decide what he could do about that in the morning.

He turned in his bed to face the doorway fully, nestled comfortably among the covers and simply watched Lestrade watch him. It was nice if not a bit surreal.

Lestrade was dedicated to his work – a classic detective in the service of law-abiding citizens. Mycroft liked that about him, that strong and honorable persona. And he didn't mind him leaving in the middle of the night or early morning like this. He was comfortable with it.

In a relationship or not Mycroft Holmes needed his space, needed time to spend alone with himself. Unintentionally Lestrade provided that, for which Mycroft cherished him even more. On the downside, night wasn't the best time to wallow in his thoughts, or maybe read a book or watch an old movie as he loved to do in his calm alone time. He would have preferred to spend this time in the arms of his lover, but well, he'll appreciate what he had.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade's voice called out softly, barely disturbing the quiet of the bedroom. He half-turned, glancing at the clock in the hall which could be seen from the corridor. The light fell on his face for the moment, underlying the tired lines of his face and making his frown more prominent. When his eyes returned to the man on the bed Mycroft could still distinguish in the poor lightning how the expression softened as he repeated. "Mycroft? Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?"

The soft chuckle was what made the man actually realize that he'd been staring at his partner silently for a couple of minutes already – so lost in thoughts. But he supposed it didn't hurt to get lost in your own dreamland sometimes.

"No…just thinking," he replied quietly, almost a whisper as he knew that his voice would come out raspy because of sleep if he'd talk any louder.

"Something pleasant?" Lestrade asked. He hovered in the doorway in indecision for a second, before entering the room and perching on the side of the bed near his lover.

"Very," Mycroft nodded into his pillow, only one side of his face visible; it was enough to see his smirk.

"I don't want to leave," the detective complained, ruining his image of a tough DI in a second.

"Of course you don't," Mycroft scoffed. His head turned on the pillow to face the other man, trying to glare through his smile; needless to say he was failing. He made an attempt to gather his dignity and show only with his eyes that obviously no one would ever want to go away when there was a Holmes in their bed. It was Lestrade's flat after all.

The DI glared playfully as a reprimand for the vanity, but then leaned over, one hand braced near Mycroft's pillow to hold him up.

"But I still have to."

Mycroft nodded, his still sleepy brain easily distracted by the close proximity. Taking pity on him, Lestrade lowered his head so that their lips touched lightly, gently, slowly. When they parted Mycroft murmured:

"Then go, before I drag you back to bed."

With a laugh Lestrade dragged himself away from his lover, knowing it was not an empty threat. He sat back on the bed, running his right hand over his lover's side. They stayed in silence in the darkness of the night, enjoying each other's presence until, with a groan, the DI stood up. His hands remained hidden in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for the other man.

"Well, I am leaving," he announced unnecessarily while Mycroft just nodded and tugged the blanket more securely around himself, getting comfortable. Taking it as a dismissal Lestrade backtracked to the doorway, stopping for a moment for a farewell smile to help him get through what was forming to be a day of hard work until he would come to get Mycroft for lunch.

Mycroft smiled at the silhouette of his lover in the doorway, unable to see but knowing that Lestrade was smiling as well. Without any words the DI left. Mycroft fell back to sleep soon after.

* * *

**Announcement: **I'm finishing _Changing Habits_. There will be three more chapters and a very short side-story (Lestrade's POV again). I just think it's long enough and I don't want it to become a 'story with too many chapters'. Also this story is coming to its logical end.

That doesn't mean that I won't be writing any more Mystrade though. There will be a couple of oneshots and a three-chapter story. I hope you'll read them:)


	21. Romance

**A/N:** This is not a songfic but it has song lyrics in it. I tried to lessen the amount of lyrics and poems, but they were necessary for the story. I'm worried about this chapter, but I hope you'll like it. There are a lot of lyrics and there are poems, which I left the way I found them, so I hope this chapter is not too difficult to read.

Also I'm not good with classics (and I don't mean classical music here). I just chose some old love songs that fit in the story.

And here I also would like to thank those reviewers who I can't thank directly. Thank you, dear anonymous reviewers!:)

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the songs: Everything I Do, I do it For You by Bryan Adams, P.S. I Love You by The Beatles, Love Me Tender by Elvis Presley, Fly Me To The Moon by Frank Sinatra and poems: A Red Red Rose by Robert Burns, Desire by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

* * *

_The twenty first change taught Mycroft to be more straightforward and, maybe even, romantic…_

* * *

_**Romance**_

Mycroft watched the small device on his desk. He knew what it was, of course he did; the thing he struggled to understand though was the reason it was there. Well, that wording wouldn't be precise either. The thing was on his desk because Lestrade had left it when he dropped in earlier in the morning. Mycroft had no use of it; if he wished to listen to music he'd use the small but good sound system he's got in the office. This however was something he did not want to use. Of course iPods were popular nowadays, a fashionable and probably useful gadget, but, as it was stated before, Mycroft personally had no use of it. He didn't expect Lestrade to own one either, though that thought was, he had to admit it, completely illogical.

When Lestrade slid the shiny device over the polished surface of his lover's desk Mycroft only lifted his brow in question.

"Just…look through the songs when you have time," Lestrade shrugged. Then he stood up and nodded in the direction of the iPod with emphasis; only after Mycroft gave an answering tentative nod of agreement did he circle the desk, plant a gentle kiss to his lover's cheek and leave.

Which left Mycroft in this predicament. He lifted the device carefully and turned it on. Scrolling through the short list of songs he wondered why someone would buy something with a large amount of memory if you were going to put less than a dozen songs in it? On the other hand, the way Lestrade insisted on him listening to this music made Mycroft suspect that the choice of songs was not random.

He slid his finger over the white circle gently, then stopped and, not looking at what song it had stopped at, pushed 'play'. The entry of the song was a melodic, soft piano tune flowing from the ear buds. As the lyrics started, a soft voice with slight hoarseness, Mycroft recognized the song; it was old and nice and very…romantic.

He leaned back in his leather chair, humming softly and repeating the closing lyrics of the first verse – the only words he actually remembered.

_You know it's true__  
__Everything __I __do __I __do it for you_

He liked that song, one glance at the iPod screen reminded him of the name of the song and the singer – _Everything I Do, I do it For You _by Bryan Adams. And then came the next lyrics that always touched his soul, no matter how many times Mycroft listened to that song.

_There's no love __– __like your love__  
__And no other __- __could give more love__  
__There's nowhere __- __unless you're there__  
__All the time __- __all the way__  
_

It was a song of such devotion, such love; Mycroft wished he'd have a love like that in his life. This made him think of Gregory, who had already subtly changed Mycroft's life in so many ways, and maybe his presence would bring this one, the most desirable, the most wonderful change…

_Don't tell me it's not worth trying for__  
I __can't help it there's nothing__ I __want more__  
I __would fight for you __- __I'd lie for you__  
__Walk the wire for you __- __I'd die for you_

_You __know it's true__  
__Everything__ I __do__ - I __do it for you_

The words ended, leaving the gentle music behind for Mycroft to enjoy the melody. When the last note turned into silence he opened his eyes, absently looked around the room. The paper pile on the desk reminded him of the load of work still waiting to be done, returning him back to the present. Pushing 'stop' on the device, he put it away and reached for the first document of the lot.

The next time Mycroft managed to look through the playlist Lestrade had left him was in the late night; he was still in the office having a small break before he'd have to leave for a late business meeting.

A very familiar tune started, recognizable from the first notes, and Mycroft was a little surprised to hear it. Guided by the notion that it was his lover who gave him the device with his choice of songs he resisted switching to the next songs in hope for something new. Furthermore the song was nice, maybe not suitable for his current mood, but still…

_Love me tender,_

_Love me sweet,_

_Never let me go._

_You have made my life complete,_

_And I love you so._

Mycroft had not been a huge fan of Elvis Presley; he respected the singer and his songs but personally he had always been the classical music type of person. Most of the times he found lyrics unnecessary as music was enough to convey the feelings without distracting the listener from the original beauty of the masterpiece. Most people disagreed with him, Lestrade being one of them. His lover always insisted that the lyrics complemented the music, conveying what music could not.

Mycroft's wondering mind was brought back by the song.

_Love me tender__,_

_Love me true__,_

_All my dreams fulfil_

_For my darling__ I __love you__,_

_And__ I __always will__.  
_

It was a lovely song and if this was another one of Lestrade's attempt at introducing him to the world of songs it was, if not working, then at least certainly helping Mycroft relax. It also reminded him of his lover, which was indeed a wonderful addition.

He didn't pay attention to the remaining words of the song, just enjoying the music and the voice, allowing his own imagination to wander. The laziness crept on him and, combined with the exhaustion, resulted in drowsiness and an unbearable unwillingness to spend another second working. Unfortunately, slacking off was not an option, so as the song ended Mycroft put the device away and called for the PA.

He got a call from Lestrade on his way back home, both of them too exhausted to have a meaningful conversation. So after an exchange of sentimental phrases they disconnected, thus leaving Mycroft to the lulling silence of his car. Sprawled on the backseat, pretty much ungracefully but he supposed he could be excused for not feeling self-conscious at the end of a difficult day, he reached for the iPod. He had just enough time for another song until they'd arrive home. This time he scrolled through the short list of songs thoughtfully, purposefully stopping on a song he felt like listening to. It was a nice easy song, melodic but quick, livelier than the previous ones; just right to keep him relaxed but not too slow to lull him to sleep. The Beatles always had that effect on him.

_As__ I __write this letter __  
__Send my love to you __  
__Remember that I'll always __  
__Be in love with you __  
_

This time he didn't let his eyes drift closed or his imagination take over; he looked outside the tinted window instead at the night London streets.

_Treasure these few words __  
__Till we're together __  
__Keep all my love forever __  
P.S. I __love you __  
__you__, __you__, __you__  
_

The idea that Lestrade's choice of songs was somewhat surprising, maybe even suspicious occurred to him but Mycroft didn't dwell on it, his tired brain refusing to make any half-complicated logical connections in that state. He simply listened and enjoyed the song.

As the car slowed down and then came to a stop the last lines echoed in his ears.

_I'll be coming home again to you__, __love__  
__Until the day __I __do love __  
P.S. I __love you__  
__you__, __you__, __you__  
__you__, __you__, __you__  
I __love you_

His third romantic song for the day had ended, making him feel less lonely than he always was when entering his dark empty flat. He thought of Gregory, alone at his home as well but warmed by the thoughts of his lover. It was strange how, even in complete solitude, Mycroft didn't actually feel lonely. The lyrics of the song still lingered in his mind as well as the catchy melody that was difficult to forget.

The next time he decided to listen to those songs was when he was waiting for his lover in the café for their daily Sunday meeting. The weather was wonderful – summer at its best, with the shining sun and the cloudless sky.

This time he paid more attention to the name of the song and the singer he chose and, as a familiar melody started he leaned back in the chair, relaxed and content.

_Fly me to the moon_

_Let me sing among those stars_

_Let me see what spring is like_

_On Jupiter and Mars_

_In other words, hold my hand_

_In other words, baby, kiss me_

The smooth voice of Frank Sinatra washed over him, his mind for once concentrating on the words.

_Fill my heart with song__  
__Let me sing forever more__  
__You are all __I __long for__  
__All__ I __worship and adore_

Mycroft felt movement near him and opened his eyes to see Gregory taking his place across from him.

_In other words, please be true_

He smiled in return to his lover's grin and caught his eyes. Warm hazels were staring right back with affection and…

_In other words, I love you_

"Good morning," Lestrade greeted.

At that moment Mycroft finally understood the meaning of all those songs. It was so simple and yet it took him this long to understand.

* * *

The iPod was safely hidden in the depths of Mycroft's desk while the man contemplated his next course of action. The sudden epiphany he had the day prior left an undefined feeling in its wake. The second he realized…he felt happy, gloriously and stupidly so. But when the logical part of his brain had processed the information, happiness was joined by confusion, curiosity and a need for solid proof, confirmation that he had not misunderstood. With the whole list of love songs waiting for him to be listened to it was difficult to misunderstand but in Mycroft's mind there was always a place for doubt. He listened to the songs, all of them; each processing an undying love. Mycroft didn't believe in undying love, but as his mind conjured the images of Gregory with every song he felt his resolve weaken and a desire to simply give in to chance grow.

Another thing that bothered Mycroft was the question of why the other man hadn't said anything. Why choose such an elaborate way to confess, if words, just three little words said by him, would be enough? Maybe this actually was Lestrade's attempt to introduce his lover to the music he liked, nothing more, and Mycroft was making a fuss over nothing.

Two days after that, early in the morning, he got a clue he was waiting for. It came in the form of a small note, put neatly at the center of his desk in the office. After a brief questioning the secretary admitted, blushing and giggling all the way, that 'Mr. Lestrade was here in the morning. He said he wanted to leave a surprise for you.' Which was followed by a worried 'I hope I didn't ruin it.' In fact, she had not, especially since the questioning happened after discovering the note.

It was pretty plain, cream paper with lines of text styled like old fashioned hand writing.

_Desire_

_Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;_

_It is the reflex of our earthly frame,_

_That takes its meaning from the nobler part,_

_And but translates the language of the heart._

_ Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

Under the poem there was only one sentence written.

_These words may not belong to me but they express my feelings towards you perfectly. _

There was no signature, but in all honesty it was completely unneeded. The first impression of the card Mycroft had was confusion. Yes, it hinted at Lestrade's feelings like he wanted, but it only hinted. What Mycroft awaited was a straight answer to his wonderings. This though made him doubt he'd ever get it.

Later he got a text from his lover, stating that the DI's team was assigned a new case so he wouldn't be able to have lunch with Mycroft. Suspicious if it was actually the reason behind a concealed date or a way to avoid Mycroft because Lestrade was too anxious to see his reaction, the politician let it slide, giving his lover the time he obviously needed.

Romance was never Mycroft's strong side. On the other hand, Lestrade, ever the gentleman and a man who wasn't afraid to straightforwardly admit his feelings, seemed to be a born romantic. Or was that a misconception? Was Gregory Lestrade as…insecure in such questions as Mycroft Holmes?

Leaving this question unanswered, partially because he didn't want to admit his own vulnerability when it came to relationships and love, Mycroft returned to his work.

He had to confront his feelings much sooner than he had anticipated as Lestrade mustered his courage during the day, enough to pay his lover a visit in the evening.

A tentative knock on the door startled Mycroft, breaking his concentration and turning his attention to the door. It opened a little, Lestrade peeking inside and glancing around to make sure Mycroft was alone. Which was pretty useless, the politician mused, since if he had a meeting his secretary simply wouldn't have let anyone in.

"Hello," Lestrade greeted as he entered and closed the door softly. He hesitated there for a moment and then he straightened, gaining confidence and crossing Mycroft's office, stopping before the large mahogany desk.

Mycroft followed his progress with his eyes, noticing a single red rose, held carefully in one hand.

"Good evening, Gregory." He said with a smile. With calmness he didn't feel Mycroft stood up and circled the desk to give his lover a kiss in greeting. He was walking slowly, tracing his fingers over the wooden desk as a gesture of faked countenance.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to see you at lunch," Lestrade apologized, but it mostly sounded like something he had to say, not what he actually wanted.

Mycroft simply smiled – a silent forgiveness. After that came silence, comfortable but laced by nervousness because both men understood that this moment would be the turning point of their relationship, whatever happened would be critical for their future. Never had Mycroft imagined this happening to him. He was always in control but _this_, this was something he did not have power over, this only depended on his lover's feelings and beliefs and his own, determined by their courage to voice it.

Mycroft was standing stiffly, not wanting to make a move and disrupt the tension in the air; it was unpleasant but whatever was coming should bring more discomfort, he decided. There could be happiness, at the end, but to reach it they had to step over themselves and just admit everything. Admit the shared feelings. But both lacked the self-confidence to make the first step.

Finally Lestrade moved, his gaze not leaving Mycroft's. He offered the other man the rose and a new note. Mycroft took the flower first, mindful of the thorns of the red rose but noticed there were none. Encouraged, he circled his fingers over the stem, smelled the flower – another act to prolong the inevitable – and put it away. He reached for the note next.

"I'm not good with words," Lestrade commented, slightly embarrassed as Mycroft read the words that belonged to another author.

_O __my Luve's like__ a __red__, __red rose__  
__That's newly sprung in June__;  
O __my __Luve's__like the melodie__  
__That's sweetly played in tune__._

_As fair art thou__, __my bonnie lass__,  
__So deep in luve am __I;  
__And__ I __will luve thee still__, __my dear__,  
__Till__ a' __the seas gang dry__:_

_Till__ a' __the seas gang dry__, __my dear__,  
__And the rocks melt wi' the sun__;  
I __will luve thee still__, __my dear__,  
__While the sands __o' __life shall run__._

_And fare thee weel__, __my only Luve__,  
__And fare thee weel awhile__!  
__And__ I __will come again__, __my__Luve,  
__Tho__' __it ware ten thousand mile__._

"Robert Burns," Lestrade explained. "I know it's not really romantic to use already written words, but in my opinion it's much better than me stumbling over every third word trying to express my feelings to you."

Lestrade was rambling, same embarrassment now joined by uncertainty, but his words fell on deaf ears. Mycroft read and re-read the words, his eyes once falling onto the red rose lying on his desk.

Love. Still unannounced, but it was there. In every gesture, in each glance, in each word was a small part of it, a tiny hint of the great feeling. It was so obvious, so what was stopping Mycroft from being the courageous and straightforward one for once? Gregory had not outwardly said it yet, because he was waiting for the right reaction from his lover – a reaction Mycroft would not give simply because he was used to been moderate. But now here it wasn't needed. So why can't he just…

"I love you." His voice was quiet, tone soft but confident.

Mycroft's eyes lifted from the words of Robert Burn proclaiming undying love, to Gregory, a man he had just confessed his own love to. Lestrade looked back, stunned with his eyes wide and mouth still open from forming another word of his excusing ramble. After a moment his lips closed and stretched into a tentative smile and, as Mycroft smiled in return, into a full grin. Hazel eyes searched Mycroft's face, taking in every small detail of this beautiful moment.

"I love you," Mycroft repeated, putting aside the note to lie by the rose. His hands now free he reached for his lover, palms sliding up his chest to settle on his shoulders.

Lestrade leaned forward, catching his lips in a gentle kiss. There was not much he could say in return.

"Yeah," he Lestrade breathed out. "I love you too."

* * *

**A/N: **As always, I hope you liked this chapter and, please, review:)


	22. Celebration

**A/N:** I am becoming a sap. Oh, well it's not like it's a bad thing.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_The twenty second change showed Mycroft how wonderful it could be to have an impromptu celebration…_

* * *

_**Celebration**_

Mycroft felt his breath catch in his throat. He ignored the feeling, concentrating on his breathing pattern and on keeping his mind on track lest he say something embarrassing. His thoughts, disorganized and leading their own life separate from his brain whirled, caught by a whirlpool of emotions. He composed his thoughts in time to stop his right hand from lifting up to touch, to ensure the image was real; instead he concentrated on the coolness of the polished mahogany under his palm – the ever present umbrella. He breathed in deeply through half opened lips, prolonging it so that it wouldn't come out as a gasp. It certainly could have.

"So?" Lestrade asked expectantly with only a little dose of worry creeping into his tone as he waited for his lover's verdict.

"Very good," Mycroft said stiffly, voice almost devoid of emotion as his throat constricted with another breath, with another glance. Seeing how Lestrade's eyes clouded with uncertainty as he avoided Mycroft's gaze, probably rethinking his decision, getting closer to regretting it with every passing second of silence. "Honestly. You look…wonderful."

Those words made Lestrade relax; his spine straightened with newly acquired confidence, his eyes got back their glint. It made Mycroft even more uncomfortable but he let it show, didn't avert his eyes this time, not wanting the other man to misunderstand his reaction.

In all honesty, Lestrade looked dashing in a tailored three piece suit. Made specifically for him, it fit the DI's figure perfectly, making him look elegant in a way he had never been before, taking 'handsome' to a whole new level. In addition the suit made him look smart, better showing off his intelligence than the rumpled pale shirt and dark trousers he was used to wearing. It was easy to mistake him for at least a Superintendent or a Chief Superintendent without a uniform, and Mycroft had seen his fair share of men in power, you can trust him in that. Detective Inspector was too low for a man like this, Mycroft decided from his subjective point of view. He might have done something to change that unfortunate mistake, but Lestrade wouldn't appreciate such interference in his life; meddling with personal life was fine, appreciated in fact since Mycroft was an important part of that life, but with work – that would not be accepted with enthusiasm, if it'd be accepted at all. That's why Mycroft tried to stay away from Lestrade's business affairs, unless they involved Sherlock.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade called out tentatively, bringing the other man back from his thoughts to the reality before him. And Mycroft was doing such a good job at ignoring 'the man in the suit'

"Everything alright?" He asked at Mycroft's prolonged silence.

"Yes. I'm just…taking it all in." He admitted, controlling the slight turmoil in his voice.

His eyes traveled the length of the other man's body again, following the pattern of thin white stripes on the dark blue cloth. Lestrade wore a dark shirt underneath, without a tie – still rebelling against constrictions – three top buttons undone, easily adding the 'flirtatious' to his 'smart'. It was, for the lack of better word, hot. Mycroft cringed internally at his own vocabulary. On the outside he smiled.

"I wish I could see you in a good suit more often. It certainly suits you," he complimented.

"Oh, good then. I was starting to panic." Lestrade joked, but the relief in his voice betrayed his nervousness.

Instead of voicing his reassurance Mycroft stepped to him, standing close so they were mere inches from touching. Mindful not to crease the fine fabric he ran his hands up and down the lapels, smoothing and caressing; led by a notion that actions speak louder than words. His hands traveled back upwards, circling the collar and meeting at the back of Lestrade's neck. His eyes never strayed from his lover's, gazing softly, allowing only a hint of his passion to be conveyed.

Lestrade smirked at that, darkly, dirtily, understanding far more than Mycroft wanted to let on. It was frustrating, but pleasing at the same time; here was a man who learned to read him, who knew him so well he could see the whole specter of Mycroft's emotions even when he attempted to conceal them.

"I'm so glad," Lestrade leered, staring into his lover's eyes with intensity. Mycroft felt his breath catch in his throat for the second time that evening, probably not the last, his heart stuttered and his body grew warmer.

"Shall we go?" Mycroft asked, voice an octave lower. He recovered quickly enough, having found the most subtle way out of the intense situation. He put a hand on the offered elbow, circling his fingers over Lestrade's forearm gently in a familiar gesture.

They decided to spend the evening in a restaurant, a small high-class place where no one would disturb them. The owner was a friend of Mycroft's, a class mate from the private school they attended, who did well in the entertainment area and not long ago opened a place, more like a private club actually, that was aristocratic and expensive. It took some persuasion to get Lestrade's agreement to come here, especially since it was obvious to both that Mycroft would be the one to pay for the evening which bothered his lover the most, but after some negotiations Lestrade agreed. Of course Mycroft had to make concessions, he accepted humbly that he'd finally have to go to the movies with his lover and visit other 'common' places. But that was an equal exchange for the evening in each other's company in a place where they wouldn't be noticed; no one would stare at a couple of men there, no one would bother Mycroft with work related issues.

That was perfect for their small celebration; because even though neither of them said anything they both acknowledged it as a celebration. A celebration of everything and nothing in particular; them just been together, their peace and their love.

They took their table, securely a short distance away from the dance floor; though to give the establishment the needed credit it should be said that every table provided some level of privacy. This place was all about relaxing in a comfortable atmosphere where no one cares about the person sitting a table away from you.

"This place is nice," Lestrade commented as they settled.

"I'm glad you like it," Mycroft admitted truthfully, he was a little worried about his lover's reaction.

They spent time talking and enjoying the food, the conversation easy and every dish delicious. The previous tension still lingered in the air, every time Mycroft looked at the man across from him he couldn't help but admire the way the suit subtly accented how absolutely gorgeous Lestrade was; because for Mycroft there was no man he desired more. Sometime during the second course he finally managed to relax and hold a more intelligent conversation, bringing up things that bothered him at work but not specifying anything. It felt nice to be able to discuss all that with someone without a threat of betrayal.

As they finished with one theme to their conversation and Mycroft was ready to move to another, a question about Lestrade's last case on the tip of his tongue, the other man stood up from the table. Lestrade earned a curious glance for the action as he moved around the table to stand close to his sitting partner.

"Gregory?" Mycroft asked tentatively, his gaze dropping from the man's face to his outstretched hand.

"Would you care for a dance?" Lestrade asked softly.

Pleasantly surprised Mycroft took the hand without hesitation and let his lover lead him to the dance floor. Soft music that previously had been only a background to their conversation was louder there, and a few couples were swaying slowly. With his eyes only Lestrade conveyed a question that worried him 'Is this alright?' but Mycroft reassured him with a small smile. It was true Mycroft wasn't prone to PDA but this he didn't consider as such. This was a private moment between two lovers and no one was going to intrude on it.

They stopped for a moment to stand into a right position. Lestrade didn't let go of his hand but readjusted his hold. His other hand settled on Mycroft's waist, thereby leaving Mycroft to be the one led and so he put his hand on the DI's shoulder. A step brought them closer to each other and they started the movement, synchronized as they swayed lightly at first, then took a step, moving as one, another step and they fell into a simple pattern, music leading them.

Mycroft let his eyes drift closed, breathing in slowly, contentedly. He rarely let someone lead, even in a dance, but with Gregory it was so easy to trust the man completely.

And so they danced, without any care of the world around them, completely lost in each other. With his eyes closed Mycroft moved, his other senses sharpened by the willing loss. Lestrade's strong hand on his waist was holding him firmly but with gentleness, sliding slowly under the fabric of Mycroft's jacket and drawing circles on the small of his back. He could feel his lover's breath on the side of his face, inhales and exhales tickling his skin and providing a feeling of comfort. Lestrade started humming softly to the music; it was so quiet Mycroft wouldn't be able to hear it if the other man's lips were not inches apart from his ear.

Mycroft let out a sigh and tilted his head so his temple touched Lestrade's. There were not many moments in his life when Mycroft felt this content, this happy. With Gregory Lestrade they happened more often. For that he was eternally grateful to this man. They didn't know how long this would last and, frankly, Mycroft didn't believe in such things as 'forever', but dancing slowly in the dimly lit room with this man he was ready to try, to hope. This felt perfect – this celebration of love.

* * *

**A/N: **And one more chapter left. I'm kind of sad to be finishing this story…but, anyway, please review:)


	23. Introduction

**A/N: **So…the last chapter. It's less romantic than the previous two, but no less important. That's how I wanted to finish this story.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

* * *

_The last change was Mycroft realizing how important every little change was and how many of them were to follow, each making him happier._

* * *

_**Introduction**_

With time the way Mycroft Holmes viewed Gregory Lestrade changed, as did the way he addressed him and introduced him to others.

When he first decided to introduce Lestrade to Astrid, that was his PA's name for that day, even though she knew perfectly who the greying man standing before her was and the DI himself had already had a small talk with her while they rode in the car together, Mycroft still thought it would be a nice thing to do. Traditional. Mycroft liked traditions. They were good for keeping life under control.

"Astrid, this is the Detective Inspector Lestrade. Detective, let me introduce you to my Personal Assistant. Her name is Astrid today."

Astrid looked up, smiled and nodded and then returned to her Blackberry. Lestrade frowned, probably wondering what all that was about, but still nodded politely in acknowledgment. Mycroft nodded as well, mentally congratulating himself for a job well-done. Now they could proceed in their starting relationship.

"This is Gregory Lestrade, a friend of mine." Mycroft said to a man they met on their usual 'Sherlock-themed' meeting.

The man, an acquaintance of the older Holmes, who came up to their table in the café did not get to be introduced in return. Polite enough not to show his displeasure at been disregarded this quickly he only smiled tensely, suspiciously glancing from Mycroft to Lestrade and back. He left, knowing his presence was unwanted, referring to some important matter he had to take care of as an excuse. Mycroft and DI Lestrade simply continued discussing how insolent Sherlock was.

"Andrew, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I want you to give him any information on this particular case he asks for." This was when Mycroft promised to help Lestrade as a way to thank him for taking care of his younger brother. That was right after Sherlock got shot on his case. The wound was far from serious, but still left Mycroft worried. It was a good thing Lestrade was close to help the consulting detective. Mycroft's gratitude was almost as wonderful as the smile he graced Lestrade with.

"Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft said to a nice dark haired woman that he and Lestrade had agreed to meet for dinner. "My partner."

Lestrade liked how Mycroft's voice didn't waver when he was saying the last part. The older Holmes had decided to introduce his partner to some of the friends he found worthy of that knowledge. First on that list came his old female friend. She was a nice middle aged woman, who didn't stop smiling mischievously when glancing at the couple. Gregory thought she might become a good friend to him as well.

"Mummy, this is Gregory." Mycroft introduced and even a not very attentive observant could catch traces of worry in his voice. His left palm covered his right hand resting on the crook of Lestrade's elbow, stopping a small tremor of discomposure, and he smiled at the elderly woman in front of them. She was smiling pleasantly, but had a regal feeling about her, detaching her from her interlocutors.

To tell the truth, Lestrade was as nervous as his lover, but acted with easy confidence trying to be pleasant and make this woman like him. Unlike Mycroft he didn't have the luxury of permission to act emotional in front of her. Not that his lover was going to use it.

Surprisingly the family meeting went fairly well, if one doesn't count Sherlock being his usual disastrous self. Thankfully all the people present were used to dealing with the childish genius and the calming presence of John Watson certainly had its effects. Lestrade was a bit curious about his presence, but contained his curiosity in favor of proving himself to be a suitable lover.

When hours later they were in Mycroft's car, his personal driver taking them to the politician's flat – the destination not discussed but apparent for both – Lestrade thought about how their lives had changed. He liked when Mycroft introduced him as his partner, an exchanged fleeting glance assuring everyone that it was far from a business partnership. The politician never called him Greg or any other abbreviation of the name. It was always 'Gregory', as Mycroft considered any other variations undignified for an honorable man, but Lestrade liked even that. No one else addressed him like that.

But in the end all of that was actually insignificant. He didn't care what Mycroft called him. The real importance held that soft tone in which he always pronounced the name and a smile and a well concealed laugh in his eyes as Mycroft announced the nature of their relationship to the world.

"Let me introduce you Gregory, my husband."

* * *

**A/N: **In two days I'll post the side story, Lestrade's POV _**Changes In Me**_. Please read it as well to fully experience all the changes.

And, also leave me a review, especially since it' the last chapter:)


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